Intrigued
by Malaspina
Summary: May Renard is a damaged woman with a love for medicine. Headcanon: Wilson's cancer is in remission. When May is offered a job at Princeton Plainsboro, the young woman with a need for control and the man with an unending need to fix everyone, clash. Will they heal or break each other? WARNING: Implied Rape, M for later [J. Wilson x OC]
1. Chapter 1

"Saturday then? C'mon."

"Busy."

"Busy? As in-"

"-As in 'preoccupied to the point where bar-hopping is definitely not on the list of things I want to do."

"A- _ha_! You said 'want', not 'need'! You're trying to worm your way out of this one, yet again!"

"Your – get your finger out of my face, Charlie – your deduction skills are truly unparalleled. Now, _please_ ".

"Showing your oldest friend the door, I see." A woman sniffled with an indignance so exaggerated, only the densest person alive would miss the sarcasm. "Enjoy your riveting evening with…"

"Dennis."

"The menace kid. Nice date. Then again, I guess watching a blu-ray is the closest you've gotten to dating in maybe…fine, _fine._ I'll leave."

True to her word, the tall brunette strides out of her childhood friend's apartment with the same amount of overemphasized irritation she used seconds before. However mad she's acting; her dark eyes vividly dance with mirth. The movie watching excuse was a quick lie, plastered on like a band-aid in haste. Usually May's lies have at least a small degree of likeliness to them, but this one was easily ripped off the skin. Her friend simply doesn't own a tv. She wouldn't give up. Like it or not, May would go out and have fun with her one day, sooner rather than later, and she'd thank her for showing her that there are other things in life than studying medicine in that personal library she'd collected over the years.

Sliding down on the other side of the closed door, the sigh of relief is tinted with regret. It wasn't easy having friends as an adult. Quite conflicting wanting desperately to connect with peers of your own age, yet needing to be alone most of the time. It was just safer on this side of the door where she wouldn't be subjected to everything she disliked about humanity. Gosh, that made her sound so bitter and cranky. Maybe she _did_ need a drink. At least without the background noises of yelling and the disgusting proximity of people making out and slobbering each other's faces, it'd go down a lot smoother. Maybe she'd even go for a shower and put on a facemask and feel a bit fancy. Concerningly, she couldn't remember the last time she bathed. Maybe that was the other, subconscious half of the reason why she declined every offer to be social.

May pours herself two fingers out of a bottle of Yamazaki 12-year old that is getting worryingly close to the end of its lifespan. Lifting the crystal cylinder of drink to her chapped lips, she surveys the apartment, eyes burning marginally from the aged alcohol. It's not just her that could do with some pampering. Almost every surface in her apartment is littered with books, opened on pages where a specific term has piqued her one-track mind. Chiari malformation, an extremely rare condition rendering the patient unable to sleep. Chester porphyria…Kimura disease…Every word an excuse to go find knowledge and rely on the comfort of what she knows she does best. Investigate.

She walks over to a book of biblical proportions without registering any of the steps. Her finger traces a column of terms, each word and sentence raining into her brain, absorbed and forever staying there. Her memory is unparalleled, she knows this – but sometimes she fears that the more of these words becomes embedded in her brain, the more she forgets being normal. Like taking those damn baths.

Rather suddenly, May slams the book shut and the noise is deep, dull and determined. It would be the green tea face mask tonight.

* * *

Despite deliberately picking a soft chime as the ringtone for Charlie – there was a limit to how often she could stand listening to the TMNT opening without considering jumping out the window – it still startles her out of her sleep with the force of an earthquake.

Scrambling on the couch where she's dozed off, May glances up at the clock above the kitchen doorway. 03:33. She flips open the phone.

"If you aren't dying, I'll make sure-"

" _Dude._ Take the simmering pot of anger off the shtove, you're...you're going to want s..to hear this."

May sighs. She can feel the whiskey in her blood, her body still working to flush it out. It was evident Charlie was worse off than that.

"Are you drunk?" She asks, unable to keep irritation completely out of her voice and fully aware of the answer.

"Oh, I'm _so_ dr-drunk. Drunk. Yeah…But that's not why I'm calling, bro."

May repeats her sigh and closes her eyes. Charlie always sounded like a male college student when her alcohol intake was way past the point of trying to have a sensible conversation.

"Why are you calling me at half past three in the morning? What is it that can't _possibly_ wait-"

"Oh, shit! Hold- just wait, hold on…h-hey-" A series of loud scrambling noises comes through the speaker and May put her entire arm out to save her ear. Even at arm's length, the loud and obnoxious voice of a drunk man shouts at her with the same clarity as if he'd been in her living room.

"Yooo _, May_! It's May, right?" It sounds much like he's turned his face to ask someone a question, but she can't make it out. "Guess who!"

"I don't…know? Sorry, who are you? I don't mean to be rude, but actually I just woke up and I don't really know what's going on."

A pause. It seems too lengthy and the playful mood she's been forced into has suddenly flipped and switched into an awkward, stale thing. It makes her feel deeply uncomfortable with each passing second.

"You really can't tell?"

"Obviously not."

"Oh."

Another silence – if you can call it that. There seems to be a karaoke session of "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga going on in the background, wherever they are. Her pulse is pounding in her throat and her face flushes hot. The voice is oddly familiar, but she still can't place it. She detests being put on the spot like this. Her friend has some explaining to do.

"Look. Can't you just tell me? I think you'd like to kill the awkwardness here as much as I'd like."

When he laughs, it rips through her body with a punch of familiarity so strong, anxiety cloys her senses and floods her mind. It was a small miracle she didn't drop her phone. The answer sits with bitterness on her tongue the very same second he reveals the obvious.

"It's Bill."

The heat of her pulse is instantaneously replaced with the sickening sensation of ice-water in her veins. It steals her breath, rearranges her scrambled, panicked thoughts and renders her completely and utterly mute. Whatever small gulps of air she's inhaling claws and rips the lining of her lungs. She's quite sure that eardrums don't spontaneously explode, but the feeling is there and she focuses her attention to draw strength into her arms so she can slowly, deliberately raise them to cup her ears. She drops the phone, but the voice of him won't go away. The 'what happened', 'hello' and 'are you still there's are much too audible for her to cope with and she finally stifles the noise with a succession of painful stomps of her heel in the general area of the hang-up button.

There is no silence after she ends the call. Everything aches and the voice of her rapist reverberates around the room to remind her that no matter what, the pain _will never go away._

* * *

It's a few minutes before eight in the morning the following day when her phone rings for the thirteenth time. She knows this because sleep didn't come to her through the chaos of her emotions, so she latched onto whatever small thing still within her control. Blocking out every single call since half-breaking her phone with her now sore foot is within her control and she exercises it with no remorse.

Right now, the main reason for ignoring the vibrations of her silent phone in her jacket, is to focus on her subway order. She is starving, tired and desperate to carry her haul of chicken teriyaki to her apartment where she can at the very least be on her own.

"Hey."

Charlie stands behind her with every bit of her form emanating worry and bewilderment. May tucks her order in the oversized inner pocket of her coat and waits – for her to talk, for something to happen. Anything.

Charlie is nearly a head taller than May, so she slants her entire body and tilts her head as she faces her – a habit as old as the time they've known each other – and begins to talk.

"So. There's obviously something here you haven't told me." She crosses her arms across her chest. "I'm not leaving until you spill."

"Then you're going to be here for a very long time." May can't maintain the eye-contact and breaks free. It's a short walk to the nearest table, and she's far from sure why, but she sits there and instead of walking the few blocks home, she looks on with a rising pulse as Charlie orders herself a coffee.

She pants as she sits right across her. "You really chose the shittiest place to eat. I hate their coffee."

May looks her friend over and sees a neatness and perfection she knows she'll never achieve. Charlie's hair is styled perfectly and not a single strand is out of place. Her bangs are full and the rest of her hair reaches her waist behind the back of the chair. Her skin is unblemished despite leading a lifestyle with drinking at least two out of the week's seven days on average. Her legs are long and slim, at least two pant sizes smaller than May, and she dresses to perfection: slim acid-wash jeans, high-waisted, a lavender crop top and her dark navy jacket open to flaunt her figure, even in below sixty degree weather.

She knows if she were sitting in that chair across from her, the sight would be an entirely more displeasing one, yet despite this, she tries to envision herself. The ashy blonde hair, although more than shoulder length, is thin and a tumbled nest. Her skin would look fine if she'd take proper care of it, but she never does, and her eating habits that have always been a "whatever's closest"-plan has left her slightly chubbier than she'd prefer. Her clothes follow the same mantra as her food and she figures whatever she's put on today was probably in fashion when Obama took office.

Slow, fluid movements across from her steals her attention. Charlie fixes her eyes with a look in them as if prompting her to begin talking, as she pours a small measure of extra sugar in her paper-cup.

"I'm not ready to talk about this today." Her knuckles strain as the tightens her grip on her jeans underneath the table. "But I didn't hang up because of anything you said."

Charlie nods and bites her lips. She takes a sip. A frown appears on her face that has nothing to do with her over-sweetening her coffee.

"Something I _did_ , then?"

"Not you."

"So, it's about Bill."

"Yes." May admits, eager to stop the cold sweat she feels from growing and becoming noticeable. "Yes, it's about Bill. I'm not ready to talk that thing, and I'm definitely not able at this point to talk to him. Last night when you put him on the phone to talk, I-"

"Was caught off guard." Charlie looks down and seems to discuss something internally whilst taking in the new information.

May nods slowly and wants to sigh, but doesn't. Instead, she swallows, and a fair amount of her anxiety goes away with it.

"I panicked. Like I've never done before, and I'm…" The sigh escapes her. "I'm really sorry."

Charlie rolls her eyes in an exaggerated gesture. "Please. I only called you about twenty times and thought you'd been swallowed by a sink-hole and died when you didn't respond. No need to apologize."

"Actually, it was thirteen times."

Charlie groans and then they both laugh.

"Okay, so no more Bill-talk then. But you have to tell me eventually, you know? With me being your best friend and all." She takes the last sip of coffee in her cup and makes a face. "Really though, this crap coffee…"

"Technically, you're my only friend."

"Exactly. Who else are you going to vent to?" She holds her hands up, palm side up, in a gesture to emphasize her point.

In her inner pocket, a very delicious and barely warm sub makes itself reminded as May shifts her weight. When she reaches for it, her fingers grace the rubbery part of her phone's casing.

"I'm pretty impressed with your timing. You managed to find me right as you called me one last time." She chuckles and takes her phone out.

"I haven't called you for almost an hour." They both frown and look at her phone.

"Wait. Who the hell is this?" Someone's called her twice this morning and the number wasn't one that she recognized. Regardless, the only one that called her regularly was Charlie.

"Shit, I thought you said I was your only friend? Cheating on me, are you?" The voice was light and joking, but May didn't miss the underlying note curiosity and worry. A sudden thought struck her and ignited a flash of anger.

"If you gave him my number, I swear."

"Are you kidding me? After you hung up and didn't answer when I tried to call you back? Give me a little credit here."

"Then, who-"

"Call them back and find out!"

Pushing hesitation aside, she hits redial. Both women exchange looks since it seems to take somewhat of an eternity for someone on the other end to pick up. But when it happens, May shoots out of her seat like a rocket. A series of niceties and a million "yes, absolutely!"'s later, she simply stares down at Charlie, her mouth open as if attempting to remember how to make sounds.

"Well?" Charlie prods.

"That was Princeton Plainsboro. They want to offer me that job I told you about ages ago. You know, the interview that I…I _thought_ I bombed."

Charlie shoots out of her seat as well, possibly even quicker than May.

"Oh my god!" Her way too tall friend yells at the top of her lungs as she ignores their deal on minimal, physical contact and swoops her tiny friend into a massive hug. Everyone's eyes are turning in their direction, but for once, May doesn't care. Her head is buzzing with too many things: Excitement, anxiety, joy, worry and suddenly, the aftermath of yesterday's whiskey.

"I think I need some of that shit coffee."


	2. Chapter 2

One bone marrow biopsy and peripheral blood smear later, Dr. James Wilson finally took his lunch after bringing very positive news to an elderly patient: No acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Since his morning had a rocky start (a very young patient being told that her breast cancer was terminal), it was slightly uplifting being able to deliver much more positive news to a patient. He'd lost track of time with the girl in her twenties, rocking her softly in his arms as she sobbed uncontrollably. It never became any easier to handle the way this ugly disease tore people's lives apart in front of him, especially since he has a very clear understand of how it feels to know you are in fact dying.

No more cancerous thoughts for the time being, he decides with emphasis and determination to not acknowledge the mildly tasteless pun, pulling a small bag of Lay's onto his tray. He wouldn't be able to function for the rest of the day if he dwelled on his job during his lunch break as well. Thirty minutes – give or take – of mental rest and then back to his daily fight of shrinking tumors and instilling bravery and a fighting spirit in those who were in need.

He picks out a table largely obscured by people and an oversized yucca and stumbles slightly when making his way to sit alone and enjoy his chicken pita. He pauses and lifts a careful, investigative hand and allows each finger to run along a sore set of ribs. Despite complete remission, a painful throb knocks on the front of his chest from time to time and serves as a reminder of the poison used to save his life. He knows chances are, there are still cancerous cells in his body left undetected and he needs regular check-ups for at least five to six years. He also knows that he will probably never stop checking until he's dead – hopefully of old age.

In the year that had passed since finding out Gregory House had – yet again – coldheartedly manipulated him to fit whatever scheme he had cooked up in the cold depths of his mind (there had been no deliberate revelation of his deceit - only the very telling silence and mild panic in his eyes), James Wilson had returned to his old work, more determined than ever to combat the vile disease. His verbal sparring with House, however, had ceased. There was nothing like lying about the state of your best friend's cancer to put out a friendship. They traded looks every day, just once or twice whilst passing each other on their separate ways through the corridors of the hospital, and House's penetrating blue stare bore no trace of real remorse. Then again, Wilson had never seen what that looked like set in those irises. It's possible, he thinks as he watches the over-filled cafeteria buzz with activity, that he could've missed it.

He spills a piece of Thousand island drenched chicken on a the yellow striped part of his tie and hurries to intercept it, but misses and it drops to the floor. All he manages to achieve is hitting the side of his hand on the weirdly concrete-like plastic. He flinches and hisses with pain. With the hand not currently throbbing with pain he rakes through tawny hair heavily streaked with greys. Nursing the hand through the initial couple of seconds filled with dumb pain, he completely misses the person who slides into the seat across his.

Wilson's heavy brows shoot up. "Dr. Foreman." He brushes of lint and crumbs that aren't there from his dress shirt, keeping his hands busy as he tries to find something to say, but Foreman speaks first.

"Just listen to me. Before you ask me to leave." He pleads and his eyes match the tone of urgency in his voice. "You _can't_ keep this up. Both of you are just waiting for the other to break, and you know it has to be you. House doesn't doesn't _do_ breaking."

"Yes." Wilson chuckles and it's completely humorless. "Which is why I'm completely fine with the state of things as they are. He doesn't talk to me, and that's what I want. Look, House told me the chemo had no effect. He showed me phony MRI images for whatever pathetic scheme he was cooking up. It's…completely unforgivable."

"You're just saying it's unforgivable because you're still angry. And I _get_ that."

"Oh, _sure_ you do." Wilson's voice sneers, growls and bears a hint of laughter all at the same time, but there's only hurt inside of him. "House is…he's a true sociopath. He doesn't care that I'm angry or upset He doesn't give a damn because he thinks he's better than you, me, and everyone else in this hospital and that he can outsmart us all, even on his worst days. He goes with whatever insane impulse his brain thinks are acceptable to get what he wants. You _know_ this. You know _him_ as well as I do."

Foreman's hands are folded under the table and he nods his concurrence.

"I do. And that's why I know you are wrong. He cares about you. He cares that you lived. And he _needs_ you."

"Ah yes, I know. He told me that when I broke down in tears and begged for him to be there for me. I think his exact wording was: _'I need you_ '. You know we're discussing House, right? It's not exactly heartwarmingly compassionate when it comes from him."

"Do _you..._ need _him_?"

It's with overwhelming effort that Wilson manages to stop himself from simply running away. He calmly crumbles his napkin and despite the burden of strain, a measure of distaste seeps into his voice as he mumbles his excuses.

 _"Hey!"_ Foreman's shout shoots through the loud dining area of the cafeteria like a bullet to the shock and curiosity of almost every diner there, and Wilson dreads to stay and listen, but he still does for a tiny second. He doesn't know why he subjects himself to guilt he refuses to acknowledge. The two doctors glare at each other, and although several feet away, Wilson feels the air around them grow suffocating and stale. He needs to go, _he needs to breathe,_ right now, or he'll-

Whatever Foreman says next is lost in the rush of blood to Wilson's head as he pivots and strides to get as far away from the deafening silence as he can.

* * *

"Are you sure?" May asks breathlessly, positive that the numbers she just got told would be her monthly salary are the first recorded case of fata morgana on a slip of paper.

"No," The stout, middle-aged woman across her smiles assuringly even though the words are contrary. "I just thought I'd throw some arbitrary numbers at you, you know. See how you react to them and all. Since we're short on space as well, you and the rest of the diagnostics team will be getting the broom closet as your office space henceforth."

May considers this and with resignation embraces the familiar pang of humiliation. Her naivety is by the least favorite of her own qualities, mostly because of the frequency with which it decides to rear its annoying head. "You're joking."

Her new boss grips her desk and literally guffaws at her expense. "Of course I am, Miss Renard. I guess I'm just breaking you in, so to speak. Don't mind me." With a smirk, she slides a paper across the hardwood and beckons May to sign it in two different places with a neatly manicured finger.

May's hand stills with a tight grip around the fountain pen, in the middle of writing the capital "R" of her last name. "I'm sorry Mrs. Espinosa, but I'm not sure I understand. What do you mean?"

"Well, you see, Dr. House is…quite a character. If you take to heart what he says and does when working on cases together, you're going to have a tough time. His brilliance is unsurpassed, so we excuse his behavior. Usually." The smile falters marginally. "You need to be ready. He is undoubtedly going to test you to make sure you pass whatever bar he's set for you. He's a disagreeable man with a divergent nature."

"But he's a brilliant doctor. I've read all about him. He's a genius."

Gloria Espinosa nods in a way that looks both pacifying and humoring. "And every bit as eccentric as one. Oh, and sign here too, please." May acquiesces, but doesn't let go of the topic so easily.

"Hence the salary" she mumbles, meaning to keep it in her head.

Espinosa frowns lightly but doesn't seem fazed. "Partially. And, partially because you're a good doctor. _And_ ," Her voice hits an interesting lilt in its otherwise monotone drawl. "You're a damn good negotiator, Miss Renard. You know, I wasn't going to hire you until I saw your credentials. Bringing in a doctor who can't explain why she's been out of a job for three years wasn't what I had in mind for this position."

May is filled with dread, and then heat floods her cheeks. They'd just agreed-

"Don't worry," Espinosa chuckles. "I'll uphold my part of the promise if you do your end of the deal. House is more than a handful, but he needs someone like you on his team. He may be brilliant, but he needs resistance. Maybe that'll finally shut up his pouting that this job isn't as interesting to him anymore."

"A ball is only going to bounce back if there's a hard place for it to collide with." May tries a smirk. Espinosa looks at her, eyes glittering with amusement.

"Too true, Miss Renard. I think I'm going to be happy I hired you. As for House…"

They sit in shared silence for a few moments and May musters up courage to break the spell and make her goodbyes.

"See you at seven sharp tomorrow. Have a nice day, Miss Renard".

* * *

Her heart stirs and then settles in her stomach when she's on the other side of the door. She stares at the floor with heavy lids and is unable to find an answer to why it feels like she just signed away her freedom.

It feels like a mistake. It feels like imprisonment. It also feels like her life's greatest chance. And it also feels like brewing euphoria, one that grows increasingly harder to contain as her feet automatically draws her closer to the elevators.

She's already punched the arrow-up button in anxious impatience a good five or six times, when she steals a glimpse to her right. There, the stairwell extends a short travel upwards and a very long way down. There's no rationality to why she decides to take the stairs, and even less in going the opposite way, but regardless, she follows the flight of stairs up, up and further up, until she meets with a brightly blue-painted door she's not entirely sure she should push open. But she does.

The crisp and cold air drafts through the entire stairwell, and takes both her and her newly styled hair by complete surprise. She makes a mental note to sort it out before leaving Princeton Plainsboro, but for the moment she takes in the open room with no walls and a greyish sky for a ceiling.

Later she would blame it on the shock of following an impulse – it clashed with her love for order and routine and there simply were no explanation for the self-indulgence. She takes off both ill-fitting, grey pumps and puts them hastily aside under a group of wide pipes. Flinging off her black crossbody bag, she tosses this more carelessly, since it's her own and not borrowed, courtesy of Charlie Beasley.

Bliss escapes her in a breathy sigh and she feels about twenty pounds lighter when she tip-toes in brown stocking-clad feet, doomed to rip. Her oversized coat goes next, it's tucked and folded neatly under her arms and she's left in an old, grey mélange sweater she's kept hidden during her interview. She stands at the edge of the tall building and peeks down at the ant-like activity on the walkways. Two men walk side by side, bikes in tow and they stop to kiss. A young girl is walking a dog way too energetic and big for her control and she yelps as she briefly loses control of the leash. What they all have in common is that they're a comfortable distance away from the roof-top, and thus, away from her. She can't decompress with anyone around her, but her mind is now clearing with each intake of oxygen and reassurance spreads from fingertips to toes. The comfort is life-giving.

The roof is a vast space of solitude and monotone blue and grey colors. And what's best of all: It's pleasantly empty of people. Strange that she happens to rather abruptly spot a large hand gripping the railing just a few spaces beside her.

Realization that she's far from alone sets in and she hiccoughs, startled and suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. She's standing in her damn _stockings and dirty sweater._ How could she not see him? Was he here before her? He must've been, the noise from the door would've been impossible to miss.

"Uh. Hi." She manages, voice nearly breaking, but also barely audible. She cringes, but the hunched over figure doesn't seem to take notice of her presence. His posture is almost a perfect ninety-degree angle; his arms are resting, hands gripping the railing with knuckles a stark white and he dips his head down as if staring directly into the ground. The harsh way the wind rips and toys with his brown hair sends a wave of pity to wash over her. The silence relieves and worries her. Her mousy voice didn't break whatever spell he seems to be under, yet she _cannot_ stand the stillness and the way tranquility has been interrupted.

"Excuse me." She tries, loud to her own ears. She reaches a careful hand out towards his shoulder, but thinks better of it inches away from touching him.

He stirs and she is assured, until she sees his eyes when he regards her. They are dark – in color, a very dark brown – but also dark with a disparaging and hollow look. If it felt like he was agonizing before, that feeling just increased tenfold. Those brown eyes chart her – they move down from the frazzled hair, to the stupid slogan on her sweater to the nearly bare feet planted on the ground beside him. He studies her so intimately, in the precise way she hates so much, because it makes her feel disassembled, analyzed and measured, and she wants to protest, but can't find it in her to do so.

"I'm sorry," his apology is unnecessary, she feels. But the warm voice is calming, so she says nothing so she can listen uninterrupted. "I thought I was alone up here. I didn't mean to…scare anyone. I'm just here for the fresh air. Hospitals tend to get a bit stuffy after a long shift. Or after over a decade of long shifts." He raises his eyes to stare straight up over the railing out into the air, simultaneously doing a lung-filling inhale and then exhale. May finds his smile too strained, affixed by compulsion.

She mirrors his posture slightly. How did she become trapped _on a roof_ of all places? He probably just wanted a bit of peace, and here she was, jumping around in her loungewear. Probably it was not a good idea to make a dumb joke in a situation like this. Probably is also just a very funny word that doesn't seem to carry any weight with her.

"You're not up here because you want to commit suicide, are you? Because I'll let you know right of the bat, I'll probably just end up talking you into it, rather than out of it. I have that effect on people." Oh good _God._

He doesn't laugh. He also doesn't look at her with the disgust she expects. Incredulous, maybe. Pissed off? Very high on the likeliness-scale.

"I'm sorry," Her hands fly up in a mea culpa-like gesture. "I'm…I didn't mean anything by that. There's something deeply wrong with me." She added, mostly to herself.

That, he laughs off dryly. "If you've come to recover from that, then a hospital is a great choice. I'm not sure we have anyone here who specializes in behavioral therapy on hand today, though." He smirks, and she recognizes the sarcasm with gratitude.

"Well, damn. Guess I'm stuck like this, then."

"Not the worst thing in the world, if you ask me." The warmth in his voice trickles into her and she finds she no longer mind the way he looks at her – disheveled mess or not.

She knits her brows and looks at him inquisitively. He shrugs, the smile suiting him, she thinks, more than anything she's ever seen before. His somewhat thick eyebrows make his face and eyes look warm, familiar and inviting and when he turns to sit with his back resting against the railing, she follows and sits beside him without fully understanding why.

"I, uh. I have a friend who works here. Complete asshole." She knows her face must display the surprise she feels because of the way he grins when he looks at her. "We're sort of going through a thing right now. He deserves to wallow in guilt, so I've been letting him do that for a while. For a long time. I'm starting to think that maybe it's...time that I forgive him."

She makes a face she feels shows understanding and hope it's good enough.

"But the decision…it has to be _my_ decision. And right now I'm feeling like if I test the waters and forgive him, it's because…other people pushed me in. I want to get my big toe wet." He huffs, interrupting his own metaphor. "I don't want to get soaked."

"Or drown." She adds, hoping he doesn't find her interrupting annoying.

"Exactly. So…that's why I'm up here. Not going to jump anywhere anytime soon."

Her anxiety disappears like little puffs of smoke through the tiniest pipe. There's so much more of it, she can practically feel her skin crawling with it, but at least unknown roof-top man seems kind. And unlikely to hurl himself over the railing, thank goodness.

He keeps conversing, but she's distracted and doesn't hear. Her eyes are focused on the underside of her heel and when she grabs it and inspects it further, she discovers that underneath the delicate nylon, there's a whole world of bruising, ranging from dark purple to a disgusting puce color.

"Are you okay? That looks…more than a little painful." He knits his brows together and before she can flail a gesture of "no thanks" to stop him, his hands are on her foot and she scrambles to adjust her weight to accommodate the compromising position; her dirty and sweaty foot in his gentle hands, inspecting, rubbing delicate circles with a trained finger.

"Is this why you're shoeless?" She nods and catch her bottom-lip with her teeth.

"That and...well. Pumps are pretty useless as it is."

He digs his thumb with a skillful gentleness into the soft, middle part of her foot and she gasps.

"Does it-"

"No. No, I'm fine. You just surprised me." Whatever comes out of her mouth isn't exactly laughter and she hates the choked noise. "There's no pain."

"Good." He gives her back her foot, which she promptly tucks away underneath her, as she sits herself upright. "Then we're even. You know: the part where I surprised you."

Drawing himself up to his full height, he offers her a hand and she accepts it, clumsily mindful of not bumping into his body. May thanks him and notices his height. She wonders whether he or Charlie are taller than the other and then reminds herself to stop becoming distracted as another sentence he says is lost in the gusts of wind around them.

"I said, it looks like it's just bruising. It'll become easier for you to put pressure on it in a matter of days. Whatever happened to it, I hope doesn't repeat itself. It's a nasty bruise."

They walk close together, hers more of a stagger.

"I hung up on some asshole." She confesses in an unusual surge of courage. "Dropped my phone and then decided to smash the hell out of it."

His eyebrows do an amused dance and he's on the verge of laughing, she can tell. She's rarely met a person who telegraphs their emotions more openly or unguarded.

"My condolences, then. I bet he was worth it. I hope so at least. Ex-boyfriend giving you grief?"

"Oh _God_ no. I'd hope that my friend would've granted me the dignity of a swift and pain-free death before allowing me to stoop so low." She jokes, but means it more than anything.

She finds that she likes the sound of his laugh more than hiding her sense of humor, like she usually does, to save herself from the embarrassment of making an off-color joke. His mouth is wide and the lips look supple and full in the middle. When he grins, his entire face transform into a boyish, careless visage: youthful bags form under his dark eyes and he looks a full ten years younger than the forty-something she figures he must be.

A series of beeps rather out of tune with the roof-top atmosphere rocks them both back into reality. Small blessings, she thinks. Those eyes are like barbed arrows with none of the murder, but every bit of inability to unhook. Eyes were her weakness. She either couldn't look into a pair of eyes, or they caught her attention like a fishing lure.

"No emergency," he answers her puzzled gaze. May realizes he must work here. "I guess I shouldn't have gotten stuck up on the roof for this long. But it was nice-" He hurries to add. His arm holds the door and he beckons her through it once she gathers her bag and Charlie's shoes.

Suddenly the door almost sandwiches them and she yelps in surprise and jolts right into his back. She expects him to apologize or demand one from her. What happens instead is that she looks on in shock as he's huddled over, clearly fighting for oxygen with each ragged breath.

"Oh my god. Are you okay? Look at me, please." _A doctor shouldn't go 'oh my god'._ She kneels at his side, resting a hand on a burning cheek, prompting him to raise his eyes to her. He doesn't, instead those choking sounds of breathlessness have now become wheezing sounds and she considers running for help. _A doctor, trying to find help for a medical emergency. Classic._

She makes a split-second decision and cups his face with both of her hands and uses no small amount of force to do so. He looks at her with an expression as stunned as if she'd stricken him across the face, but the breathlessness cuts his surprise short. _"Look at me."_

He complies, licking his lips from the dryness of gasping repeatedly. "Are you in any pain?" He nods and coughs. She thinks it might be wishful thinking, but his breathing seems to become more stable. "Are you able to breathe? Nod for yes." she adds, rather redundantly. He nods and a weight sheds off her shoulders.

"Cancer." He breathes in shallow gasps. The weight returns to strike her across the face like a flail. "Remission. No…worry. Just...a…moment. Please."

She looks down the flight of stairs and desperately want to take him to a place he will find it easier to rest and where she won't be alone with him. She returns to look at his face and succumbs to a shiver of fear – the look on his face is so agonized she struggles to grasp a thread of her frayed focus. She takes her hands off his face in haste. They've been there much too long for his comfort.

When finally down on the sixth floor, she delicately lifts his weight off her shoulder and sits him down in the nearest, moderately comfortable looking chair.

"Thought I told you to leave me alone." His breathing is no longer shallow, but his forehead perspires and when she lifts her brow in annoyance, he laughs softly.

"Yeah? Well, you didn't." She doesn't want to glance up at him from under the safety of hooded lids. "You scared me senseless, so you don't get to any say in what I do. I'm depositing you here and then you go ahead and have your moment." It sounds a bit harsh, but she has much more than just a suspicion this man hardly takes offense to anything. It's too late to take back when she notices she admitted feeling fear.

"Strange logic." He derives from this and breathes a deep, concentrated breath.

"Logic is never strange. That part is all me. Rationality has rules." She brings her index and middle finger to his wrist and takes his pulse, divides the rate and is satisfied, although it's in the higher end of the scale.

"Rules are just a way for boring people to adhere to a nice, safe routine." He loosens his tie. "And who in their right mind wants to be boring?"

She doesn't really know how to answer this, because it hits so dangerously close to home. Rules are her crutch and the less people around her who are aware of this, the better. Instead, she asks him if he's feeling better. He nods and sighs with immense relief.

"Thank you…" His head tilts quizzically as he trails off.

"May."

"James." He accepts her extended hand with a small amount of awkwardness; she knows her handshake timing-game is far from on point, but she's flustered and barely calm enough to talk.

"For a patient, you sure know how to handle a man-damsel in distress. Seems like the roles got reversed today. I'm a doctor." He elaborates with a tired smile.

"I figured."

"What, the tamagotchi?" He looks down at the pager. "Dead give-away, huh?" As she stands up to leave, she catches his frown out the corner of her eye when he inspects another incoming message, but she doesn't ask.

"I'll see you later, Dr. Wilson." Her steps on the tiles make an unfamiliar, delicate clacking sound as she travels down the hall towards the safety of the elevators.

It's only much later in the day, halfway through a chicken-breast sandwich when it hits her that she never told him they were going to be colleagues.


	3. Chapter 3

It's close to eleven in the morning precisely a week after May began her first day, as the newest member of Dr. Gregory House's Diagnostics team at Princeton Plainsboro.

She had managed to evade her team with an amount of ease that, quite frankly, surprised her. There had been no major diagnostics cases that demanded any of the team's attention, and so, her entire effort had been poured into doing clinic duty. Being stuck doing something relatively mundane was still challenging to her. The dreading of hearing the bell toll, calling her to her first, big, joint case with her new boss kept her on her feet, but she is now painfully aware that not introducing herself to the rest of the team must have come off more than a little awkwardly. Perhaps she was overly concerned with banalities, overthinking the details no one else was bothering with. It made her a great diagnostician, but left her social competence with a great deal to desire.

May delicately turns the patient's hand around in her own and notice how it dwarfs hers. She always disliked her short, tapered fingers. With trained pressure, she examines the lump under intense scrutiny, despite already fully aware of what it is.

"A ganglion cyst, Mr. Travis." May shoots him a reassuring smile. "Completely benign. There's absolutely nothing to worry about."

He repeats the sentence any doctor will hear perhaps a thousand times during their practice. "So…it's not cancer? Oh thank God." His voice is practically overflowing with relief and he utters the dreaded c-word with a hint of laughter underneath.

"It's not cancer. Cysts like these are among the more common type to occur around the hands and wrists and they are completely harmless. There's nothing to worry about. If, like you said, it doesn't cause you any discomfort, there's no need to remove it. But that is entirely up to you. The options could be removal of the fluid or perhaps even surgical removal. I'd recommend simply letting it be. Actually, they sometimes go away on their own."

"I knew it was nothing. Just thought I'd make sure, you know? You never know with these things." He hops off the examination table with renewed energy – he must've been sweating profusely as he was waiting, judging by the oversized pit stains on his lavender dress shirt – and quickly flings his coat over his broad shoulders. "Thank you, Dr. Really, I- I mean, I'm so…it's such a major relief." He stumbles over his words with joy, and fumbles equally with his coat before walking out of the room. A sharp draft drags sounds and smells that rival each other in loudness into the examination room and she winces. Everytime someone opened that door, the entire world seemed to flood in.

"Dr. Renard."

May is starting to get well-acquainted with that voice: light, airy and soft. It belongs to nurse Kirke, who's red hair is spilling onto stubby-nailed fingers holding her clipboard. She has a patient by her side.

"Neil Silverburgh. And-" She bites her lip and she almost looks amused. "Dr. House wants to see you."

It's odd how six words can so quickly turn someone into an inarticulate fool.

"Well? Would you mind having a look at this?" Says her patient as he starts unbuttoning his corduroys.

* * *

"Don't do it House." Wilson cautions loudly, his eyes never straying from the MRI he holds up against what sparse light is in his office. Years of training has put him on permanent high alert when it comes to any movement out on the balcony and as such it is no coincidence he catches the tell-tale limp in the periphery of his vision. House's hand is already sliding the door open to James Wilson's office before the oncologist can form further protests.

"Oh. Well _not_ opening the door to your office would really hinder my plan of opening the door to your office." House flings himself onto the couch, with the air of a teenager jumping into bed after a taxing day of school. "Also, if I didn't pay you a visit, you wouldn't be able to hear."

There's an odd pause hanging in the air, so Wilson yields with a tiny sigh. "Hear…what?"

"I bring good tidings. Your patient doesn't have cancer." He waves a dismissive hand and Wilson irritably stuffs the images back into the folder. He was, annoyingly, correct.

"Y'know, speaking of _not_ having cancer-"

"Tread very carefully, House."

"-You're out of the woods for now. I hear there's a high chance of recurrences in bitter, single, middle-aged oncologists." House teases with a provoking lilt to his voice, the ever-present frown on his face. His expression never really did match his words. "But your problem is even bigger than cancer. You're cancer _free._ Now that the basis for all the impulsive, unhinged behavior has disappeared, your inner James Dean has turned into…James Wilson."

He uses the cane as a faux sniper rifle, eye against a non-existing scope, aiming up at the spotless ceiling. "You couldn't make your normal life-expectancy life work out. Your problem is that you miss dying, because it freed you from banalities, without the usual guilt of letting loose." He mimics shooting.

" _That's_ your analysis?" Wilson laughs dryly, his expression amazed with the implication. "You think I have a fetish for dying because it makes me feel alive? That's maudlin. And obviously wrong. Your…" He gestures with both hands at House dismissively. "Diagnostics parameters need adjusting. Badly."

There's a pause in which they lock gazes and Wilson gives up escaping the madness.

"You're not here just to tell me you think I miss dying, are you?"

"You're on the hunt. For action. Involvement." House responds immediately. "You might not exactly miss dying, but _you-_ "

House settles into sitting upright on the couch, training his cane directly at Wilson's rolling eyes.

"-Miss who you were when you were dying. Wild. Negligent. Rash." House considers the next word with his face in a thoughtful expression, but despite this it seems to slip out, artlessly and indelicately in equal measures. "Disgraceful."

He is supposed to argue against this, Wilson knows without considering. It's natural to rebel against the notion of being painted out as a crude anarchist. But he can't object. A hypothesis, it's still true, which he first realizes in this very moment after hearing it from House's mouth. Whatever anger he feels from the accusation is misdirected if shot House's way. So, he says absolutely nothing and reaches for his pen and post-it pad in order to busy his hands and still his growing annoyance. He scribbles: _'invest in lock for balcony.'_ And, in doing so, missing out on the obnoxious, lopsided grin on Dr. Gregory House's face.

"Thank you. I could've sat on this couch all day trying to get inside that skull of yours." Despite this, he doesn't get up to leave, Wilson thinks. He shifts in his seat and adds: ' _Donate couch. Buy new one at goodwill/craigslist. Alternatively: trash the cushions and replace with Styrofoam.'_

House creeps soundlessly close and leans casually – as much as possible – on his cane. "Be creative. My ass-cheeks aren't exactly delicate enough for that Princess on the pea stuff to keep me from reminding you how boring your life is. You need something much more unsettling than that."

"Fine." Wilson mutters, his patience starting to wear rather thin. He is just about to write the word: ' _tiger-pen',_ when his door literally bursts wide open.

The abrupt intrusion nearly shocks Wilson straight out of his seat. Even House tenses fractionally.

Her hands firmly gripping the doorframe, a familiar-looking, short woman with rumpled, blonde hair and a set of eyes that scream panic looks straight at him, then at House, and lastly back to him. Initially, she makes a whimpering noise Wilson is sure sounds like _"Help",_ but it dies in her throat as she seems to reassess her surroundings.

Wilson is startled the moment he sees her, because his immediate impulse is to go to her and comfort her. He knows he is drawn to calming people's distress, but he won't give House the pleasure of feeding the cynic's image of him as a man mad for damsels in distress. So, he sits perfectly still instead and relieves the need to care for her by curling his hands into fists and then relaxing the muscles. Idling, he wonders if her foot is better off and is annoyed with himself that that is the second thing on his mind.

"Dr. Hilson, I'm here to see you." She misspeaks in a rush and looks as if she wants nothing more than sink into the very ground she's standing on. She shakes her head urgently and literally flaps her hands as she simultaneously twists and turns them in front of her. "I mean. Dr. House. Th-the patient." Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, his eyes shut tightly. He had once been the witness of House firing a doctor for cheating in scrabble, and here she was, rambling like a first-year med student. He made a mental note of interrogating Espinosa later. Hiring people just to tick off House was a bad move for everyone involved.

House has his head tilted much like a curious hen, staring at her passively. It seems to have the effect of a nuclear bomb going off inside her. "I-I, that's…nurse Kirke sent me here to get briefed, but he's…Dr. House, I was examining the patient's penis when-."

Wilson blinks rapidly with bewilderment when House makes a sudden, unamused voice. He turns to face House's flat expression and more than strongly suspects that House is savoring every moment of her distress.

"Do you need a consult from someone with a pee-pee?" House inquires with a condescending voice one would normally use with a small child. "Because I know it's tough and all, not knowing what to do. You'd have to be like…I don't know, a _doctor_ or something." May flushes a bright scarlet at his mocking tone.

"No, Dr. House. I was within inches of touching the patient when he went into anaphylactic shock. I'm certain I did nothing wrong. He couldn't have had a bad reaction to something." She pants a little, recuperating. "My hands weren't even on him."

In his uneven gait, he comes closer to her. "Then my guess is…No allergies?"

"No allergies." She confirms.

"A patient doesn't experience anaphylaxis out of boredom. We just don't know what he's allergic to yet. My bet is on easily intimidated doctors." He dismissively and briefly turns up his chin, hinting at the open door. "You should get back down there and do some of that doctoring stuff."

May bristles: a great deal of the shock wears off and she's weary with anxiety so she turns to hostility and defensiveness. "I'm not _easily intimidated_. I just had a grown man pull his pants off and collapse in my arms in spasms." She replies caustically. "I'm allowed to be a little shaken up." Her arms cross in front of her body. Why would he waste time ridiculing her in a moment like this?

"No."

She frowns in disbelief. "What?"

"No: You're not allowed to be shaken up. You're a doctor. Or maybe that glowing recommendation in that brilliant CV you handed in was a fabrication?" He towers over her 5'3" frame like hawk over prey. "If so: kudos. Nothing gets past Espinosa. I've been trying to get my favorite prostitute permanently installed in a room next to my office for months. No dice."

To this, she has absolutely no answer. Adding to her bewilderment, House's face looks as if he's casually discussing the weather. He almost looks bored. It baffles her.

"Before you ask, yes, he's always like this. And no, it doesn't get any better." Wilson's soft and reassuring voice diverts her attention towards him and irons out the incredulous folds in her face. She thinks his voice is everything a doctor's should be and finds herself lacking in comparison. But this feeling of inadequacy isn't new to her. "I have to say I was surprised to learn that you'd found work here, but not half as much as when I heard you were the new diagnostician." He continues, and she dislikes his obvious attempt to deflect from the confrontational mood in the room.

May considers how he is hunched slightly over his desk, a pen in his hand. He seems transfixed with whatever is on his desk, perhaps to avoid getting too involved in what's unfolding in his office. She can't exactly blame his disbelief that a tiny mess of a woman, whom he first saw skipping around the roof of the hospital in her pantyhose, turns out to be the new addition to one of the world's most esteemed diagnostics teams. It isn't the time nor the place for talking about their encounter on her first day at the hospital, but resisting that urge isn't something she particularly wants to, whether it's socially frowned upon or not. It could be her hatred of conforming to those social rules or her rising annoyance with Dr. House's flippancy. It doesn't matter either way to her.

"Dr. Wilson. I'm sorry about the intrusion." She speaks with a calm she doesn't feel. "I was told by Dr. Foreman if House was nowhere to be found, he'd be in here. And…I also wanted to thank you. For the other day."

"Don't apologize. I hope your foot's doing better, May." Wilson accentuates those words with a reassuring gesture, his right palm facing her. He reaches over and grabs a small stack of papers, looking at neither her nor House. She disregards the irritation she feels; seeing him so open and vulnerable that day struck her in an almost intimate way. She wasn't naïve enough to consider they shared a bond, but she had felt connected to him in their shared pains. Now he didn't even look at her in conversation. May nearly shakes her head; she's over-thinking inconsequential details again.

"Well," House says loudly, raising his brows in a flash. "I'm going to see the patient before he expires." True to his word, he limps past May with some degree of difficulty – she finds herself still standing in the actual doorframe thus blocking him – and saunters off.

"Wait." Wilson softly calls out.

In a fluid motion that is encouragingly unlike the last time she saw him, Dr. Wilson rises from the seat at his desk. May shoves her hands into her lab coat to still her fingertips from fondling the lining – one of her bad habits set off by stress.

He brings himself to stand in front of her, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt and though she intensely searches his face for an answer, she can't for the life of her figure out what he intends to do. So fixated is she on decoding this unexpected behavior, that despite the considerate and unhurried nature of the gesture, when he grabs her forearm she can't help but to gasp out loud.

Wilson mutters a quick apology, but nevertheless pulls her arm closer. "Look at me, please?" He asks her in a gentle tone of voice. Two very brown eyes look impossibly deep in to hers.

It's embarrassing, but it takes her a moment to understand what he's doing.

"I'm not in shock." She snickers at the absurdity, but her smile strains at the edges. Her breathing is too shallow to support that lie. "I witnessed a naked man having a strong allergic reaction, I didn't observe a shooting. I'm a doctor, remember? Not allowed to." The smile on her face vanishes entirely when he turns her face back and forth, holding her chin delicately. This man's doctor's instinct runs bone-deep, she thinks, and wants to be indignant. She's not his patient. She's not even in need of help. The protest is right there on her tongue, all it would take is a small word of disapproval.

But his thumb rubs reassuring circles on her skin and it's calming her anxiety like no one ever has and she's scared of admitting it, but there's no way she's ready to withdraw and relinquish that comfort, so she ignores the tell-tall signs: the colors bleeding, her vision blurring around the edges and she decides that the lack of action is the best course of action because honestly, she can't be bothered anymore…

It's too late to roam her eyes over any nearby details, to fixate on the pattern in her breathing – quite frankly, there is no rhythm to it – when she acknowledges that she's losing consciousness. There is no other option than to ditch control since it'll be gone in any second anyway. She knows, and she hates. But you can't fight nature.

* * *

"Better? Deep breaths, if you can."

Her world is still very much blurry and the muscles in her legs and feet are weak from strain when she finds herself perched on Dr. Wilson's desk, eyes acclimating to the strangely new position she finds them both in, his face inches for hers as he bends down to inspect her pupils. She notices with horror how firmly he's cradling her face, the other hand planted solidly on her shoulder for support. Had he seriously been holding her unconscious body upright this entire time?

"Panic attack." He says knowingly. It's not a question: it's a statement. She almost doesn't want to answer as it might break the spell she finds herself under. Usually touch is the trigger, not the remedy. However he managed to not send her flying into a panic with shocked senses when he held her arm before, she has no idea, but she's dazzled all the same.

"We can't keep seeing each other like this…" She sniffles. _Christ._ But the groan-inducing, poor attempt at joking is met with a chuckle, the mild sound so welcome to her ears she could swear it had a year-old familiarity to it. "Sorry, that's awfully weak, even for me. I lose my gift when I'm incapacitated."

"It's a relief you've retained a sense of humor. I think that's a clear sign that you're fine." He says quietly. His eyes glitter with amusement. "Even if it's second rate."

"Sorry." She smiles weakly and then makes a move to stand up, but with surprising strength she is pulled back to sit. She obliges with a huff.

"Just…hang around here for a few minutes, alright? Give your body some time to re-adjust. If your attack was severe enough to make you faint, you need a break. No-" He interrupts her sternly, but she discerns no anger there, only too much coddling for her taste. One more she attempts to jump down, and yet again her escape attempt is foiled. He reaches past her for something on his desk. "House isn't going to make your day any easier if you're collapsing at his feet like this. Sit. Relax."

May frowns and folds her hands in her lap, but eagerly unfolds them and gratefully reaches out to receive the lukewarm cup of coffee he hands her next. "I am only physically able to do one of those two things." She mutters humorlessly, gratefully sipping the caffeinated beverage. Small blessings: if he had time to do a coffee-run, there was no way she had been hanging limply in his arms like she had thought initially.

He exhales. It's an even sound. To her 'dislike of close body contact'-horror, he sits down on the desk adjacent to her and hums his evident disagreement towards that admittance, mid-sip. "You need to learn how to stand and sit at the same time if you're going to work for House. You have to know that." He adds, catching a glimpse of her brooding face out the corner of his eyes. "He's a good doctor. Even just calling him a good doctor is insufficient – he's the best. If he sees you wearing your scarf on your bag instead of around your neck, he'll say you've recently been at the zoo and been bitten by some exotic parasite…And be right about it. I've never met a more frustrating person in my life. Petulant bastard with the most intense eye for details you and I would overlook. And…he's a friend. A really good friend. As they are, flaws and all." Wilson adds, by the sound of it more to himself than her.

A curiosity overwhelms her. He seems engrossed in some thought far-away from her and this office. He savors the coffee, fumes rising and curling around his nose. _'Ah. The asshole who is also a friend.'_

"Are you going to forgive him, then?"

If he feels startled by the admission of her discovery, he doesn't really show it. The only somatic sign that he hears her question, is the tiny movement of his head: a reluctant, single nod.

"If I'm being honest: I already have. I'm just thinking of ways to broach the subject without being subjected to his smugness."

She laughs, a light sound that bubbles in her throat. "Oh, he's already smug to everyone here. I've been trying to stay out of his way, but he's a thundercloud. Constantly on the move and striking people sporadically."

"What a _striking_ metaphor."

"That's exactly what I'm saying."

It's his turn to laugh at his own poor joke.

With the slightest brush, the tip of his pinky innocently makes contact with her thumb, their hands closely resting on the edge of the desk. It's not because she doesn't expect it that suddenly she jolts and jerks her body away in what could only be seen as an overblown reaction of dislike. James Wilson regards her with an apology in his eyes, but she finds confusion in there too, coaxing her to explain. She can't possibly. There are no words fit to explain the ugly turmoil she doesn't comprehend herself. Yet she attempts it all the same.

"Physical contact tends to…freak me out." She explains in a rush, choosing not to say: _'gives me intense feelings of disgust'._ "In certain circumstances. There's something about the feeling of it, the feathery touches. Drives me insane." She turns her eyes to the point of impact, then back to him. "It's so intense that I can't control it. I'm sorry. It's definitely not normal." Heat shoots in all directions from the base of her spine. Always with the senseless rambling…

"I'm relieved it was just because of the touch." His eyes crinkle at the corners, bearing the weight of his broad smile. "It's not _that_ uncommon, y'know. I'm not all that crazy about hugs and handshakes myself." She considers his diplomatic reply. She's used to this response, because it's usually either this, or a mocking laugh.

"I've shoved people into walls for shaking my hand."

"An extreme reaction, but I'd still say it's not a strange thing."

"I slapped my best friend in the face once, because she hugged me from behind."

"Many people would get startled by that."

"I'd rather give a four-hour lecture in front of my worst enemies that I'd…hold hands and…I'd rather talk about the most embarrassing things imaginable, than I'd hug a person. You can't say that's not a strange thing. I'd make a pact of divulging some personal fact about myself once every day for a year if it meant I could forego touching of any kind for the same amount of time." Boldness overtakes her and is not only in her words, but her actions. She closes much of the distance between them. "It's not normal."

Wilson regards her stoically. "You keep repeating that. I wonder if it's you or whether someone else drummed that into your head."

"Ok, _that_ is just…" Her hands fumble compulsively at the front lining of the lab coat as he interrupts the sentence that has no continuation anyway. "It's based purely off experience."

"I don't understand people's constant obsession with being 'normal'." He says, although his voice betrays that he's a little tired by the exchange. "If they want to be accepted, fine, but there are so many other traits to identify with that are more desirable. Being strong…kind…charitable." He gestures while listing virtues.

May pockets her hands. Her patience is failing her rapidly because he presumes so far, and yet he's miles off the target.

"It's not about being desirable, Dr. Wilson. Normal is an ideal because it's the opposite of whatever flawed version of me I'm currently running on. And that's _my_ problem to think about. Not yours." The harshness of those words doesn't make her flinch like she expects. With a nod towards the door, she pools all her focus into forming the sentence that will save her from exploring this conversation further. "I should get going."

The pit of her stomach is no more than a crater with tepid embers being the only remnants of the heat from when he showed her concern. It proves much more than simply a challenge to travel the corridors of Princeton Plainsboro with her carefully crafted countenance of neutrality betraying none of her inner turmoil, but as always, she manages the task.

* * *

The flat-screen blares obscenities over what would otherwise be a quiet room in which May is utterly alone. With a stern, but soft reprimand about acquiring a proper diet (her clothes were starting to feel tent-like as of late), Charlie had left her apartment in a haze of heavy, floral notes from her favorite scent and with giddy anticipation: tonight was date-night, and this one was a repeat experience. Charlie's excitement was so tangible whenever she talked about him, she was practically bright with how obviously she was in love. May smiles tiredly. Damn her if she happened to stand in the way of that.

Charlie is the only company May is able to enjoy without a thread of anxiety, and tonight has left her brooding. It would've been nice to off-load some of today's events, she admits, and stirs her mug of hot chai with her eyes pensively regarding a spot on the wall behind the tv. Charlie had entertained her neediness for hours and she didn't feel she deserved to steal any more of her time.

However deeply foreboding this case had felt with a naked man convulsing at her feet, it was looking like the immediate future was going to be teetering on the brink of bad outcomes. Struggling not to mentally list them all, she nudges an open book to the furthest corner of a side-table to create a tiny space, and places her mug there.

There is no point whatsoever, she concedes, in attempting to uphold the illusion that she is in control. Even before her first shift she had doubtlessly made a dubious impression on one doctor, and as things were, she was now well on her way to making a second doctor – her boss – question her position on his team. Diagnostics is an esteemed field. You must clamber and fight your way up, continuously swiping your claws in all directions to ensure that your spot will still be there next shift. To make matters worse, she is convinced Dr. House is live ordnance to which her personality is a timed trigger. She knew she wasn't making a good impression.

When she eventually made her way through the seemingly endless corridors earlier that day, the quivering sensation in her stomach came to an anti-climactic halt after softly opening the curtains: one very allergic patient was absent from the bed he was supposed to be resting in.

It took an exhausting relay-race from nurse to nurse to eventually find him in House's office adjacent to the diagnostics office. Warily, she'd walked in when Dr. House had flagged her down through the glass when she reasonably distracted by the patient's presence – Dr. House had installed a basket hoop in his office, and the patient was happily lobbing the miniature ball through the hoop with middling success – she was fractionally startled by the presence of Dr. Foreman and an unfamiliar face when she opened the door. He – a surprisingly stunning, blonde male doctor, she noted – was overly absorbed by the whiteboard and never bothered even looking at her when she walked in.

What a confusing, mind-altering, rush of an experience. The following minutes had been a brainstorm littered with hypotheses, most of them conditions she hadn't heard anyone mention in years. Some were eagerly jotted down by House's hand with little or no comment. Other theories he scrutinized and picked apart brutally within seconds, with a testy tapping of the marker, a constant reminder that he needed more, expected more, _wanted more._ She fell into that rhythm with an ease she now felt a smug sense of pride about: this had rules, rules had structure, and structure was the key she needed to enter his world.

The suggestion _congestive heart failure_ had seized everyone else in the room, and she mentally shook her head: it explained only the trouble the patient had with swallowing, his chest pain and the shortness of breath, but little else. It had, however, poked a hole in the atmosphere and with that introduction from her, her way forward felt paved. " _Epiglottitis!"_ She'd nearly shouted, feeling fiercely in her right element. But albeit that was feasible based on many of the correct symptoms, it was a flawed diagnosis with many pieces missing – not to mention it was most commonly observed in children under the age of ten. Gradually, they all started exhausting themselves and when they'd arrived at discussing cancers she quietly reminded them about the patient's violent convulsions that still were highly likely to be anaphylaxis. House had shot her a bored stare, and God: if that was what the man looked like when he was detached, she'd never want to see him furious.

The patient was put in a clean-room under strict surveillance for the time being. Whatever he had been exposed to, it was clear to everyone that there was a considerable risk it was going to kill him if he was re-exposed. By and large, that was what House had said – right before suggesting (or rather, ordering) that they try and find that allergen under controlled circumstances. Not the most radical suggestion, standard procedure in many cases even. But enough to make her feel rueful then, and close to frightened on the entire ride home.

With a cold knot in her stomach, she fumbles for the mug until she remembers she's already emptied it. May releases a large sigh that carries with it most of today's strain. What if things spin horribly out of control and she ends up failing? Giving a wrong diagnosis, treating the patient wrongly, ending up killing him? Rarely did diagnostics run a straightforward course, it could take ten wrongful guesses to end up at the right answer, and there was only heaps of hope and medicine to ensure that the patient got through that without too many hitches. Hitches, in this scenario, meaning death. She gives in and cradles her cup just to still her hands, hating her weak side for casting a shadow of potential doom over her every thought. She would have to change to fully adapt, if she didn't want to risk failure.

She tries to push the subject of Dr. Wilson's friendship with House out of her mind, to no avail. The saying 'opposites attract' springs to mind since there really is no other explanation as to why two so seemingly divergent personalities would find kinship. Then, she blushes furiously. Could they be lovers? As trivial as it is to her and probably most people that they are both men, maybe it meant a great deal for them to keep it a secret because of the possible stigma – or perhaps just to keep up a professional appearance. The more she thinks about it, the more convinced she is. What little interaction she saw between them, they seemed crudely familiar, like an elderly couple. May snorts when that particular thought transforms into a vivid mental image. They did suit each other in an odd sense, now that she thinks about it properly.

When she realizes she's stalling with her mind absently wandering, she gives in. Her bed has been calling her from the moment she said goodbye to Charlie. May ties her ash-blonde hair into a robust braid and decides with gumption that she'll start using those diagnostician claws and prove to Dr. House – and herself - that she deserves her new position. And then some.


	4. Chapter 4

May isn't opposed to breaking and entering. After all, the ends do justify the means. Her biggest issue at hand is that she is, apparently – judging by the affixed scowl on Dr. Chase's face – not allowed to make any sort of small talk, even if she had an affinity for that sort of thing. As he rifles through drawers and overturned underwear – throwing a rolled-up wad of cash back after a long look – she bites her lip. The tension is thick and almost cloying, yet she possesses no real idea of why he seems so insistent on the silence.

"Smells pretty damp in here. I wonder if there's a spot of black mold somewhere." She says, attempting to kill the tension for the seventh time, and wrings her latex-gloved hands together in stress.

"I don't think it's relevant," he replies in a bored tone that clashes with his aussie accent. He shuts the drawer decisively, satisfied that there are no clues in there, and walks past her to climb the staircase. "It's much more likely he's been triggered by a more recent element. Flashlight." He commands, and she fumbles with the light while simultaneously attempting to scale the stairs behind him. His tone is too pointed, she thinks, and accepts that he just might not be in a very talkative mood - his inclination towards prematurely ending their conversations has probably nothing to do with her personally.

"Careful." Chase yanks her somewhat forcefully up the last few steps. "Last step was rotted all the way through. We're not exactly dealing with Tim Allen here."

"They had that show in Australia?" She draws herself together, idly dusting non-existing particles of dirt off her coat whilst simultaneously loathing the nervous habit.

"I've lived in the US for a long time." He says dismissively. May stops herself from dumbly uttering the word _'oh'_ in the nick of time, and trails behind his fast-paced stride into what appears to be the patient's bedroom. She marvels at its sheer size and then a short exhalation later at the exaggerated grandiosity. Colors of burgundy, fuchsia and burnt sienna assault her eyes. The color scheme is brighter than a 4th of July fireworks' display.

 _It_ captures her eyes like an ink stain on otherwise blank sheet of paper.

"What?" Chase hisses at her, clearly annoyed at the gesture. But she insistently taps his bicep once more, a part of him that is easier to reach at her smaller stature, until he turns and spots it as well. "What the _bloody hell…_ "

Standing proud at about 6 feet – and almost as wide as that – a highly saturated, vivid and unfortunately, quite lifelike painting of what without a doubt is their patient, stares back at them in its full glory. Only, that is a bit of a lie – his eyes at least, seem to be staring into the distance, over May and Chase's shoulders at some hypothetical greatness. It is what's between his thighs that is saluting them at full mast.

Despite feeling more than mildly shocked at seeing her patient greet her in life-like detail, she can't seem to tear her gaze from the canvas.

"Impressive."

"C'mon, he must be exaggerating. There is _no way-"_

"Only slightly." They exchange an almost comical look; his incredulous and her own on the verge of breaking into a laugh. "I'm referring to the painting itself. Can you magine the cost of commissioning something like this?"

"Hm, he's a right nutcase, this one. Wouldn't splurge on a painting with my house in this much disrepair."

"He seems...lonely."

She's said the wrong thing again, she knows the instant it leaves her lips, but she's starting to get fatigued working at keeping up the semi-normal self she substitutes herself with. They share a sigh for entirely different reasons, and she longs to leave this place – the awful smell, the unsolicited manhood and Dr. Chase's disapproving glances – home is calling, she can hear it-

"Hey, have a look at this."

Stumbling over an empty hamper – and teaching her a new, colorful, Aussie expletive as a bonus – he hurries over to her side impatiently. He holds a white, plastic object up against the small strip of light streaming into the room, until he remembers their discrepancy in height and lowers it sufficiently for her to see.

The tip, milky pink stained with yellow, has somehow lost its cap and she flinches before remembering that, thankfully, she is wearing gloves. The display shows two vertical, red bars, the one to the left mostly faded.

"A…pregnancy test." She frowns, stating the obvious. "Mr. Silverburgh is a bachelor. It wouldn't make sense for him to buy a pregnancy test."

Chase shrugs, and the flippant gesture chafes her already tested nerves more than a little.

"Could've just gotten it for a girl he's seeing. Maybe she used it at his home because it was easier that way. It's not unimaginable."

"But extremely unlikely. Look at this place!" She elaborates, doing a sweeping motion with her arms when she sees his questioning frown. "Would you really invite anyone into your home if the floorboards were rotted and it smelled like the inside of a camping toilet?"

"Fair point, I guess, _oi_ , don't sit there!"

May jolts up like she's been electrocuted and Dr. Chase yanks her into his chest with a force that knocks any questions out of her along with the air she was withholding in her lungs, the combination of these two motions fluidly sends them both tumbling. She sprawls over his body indelicately, the compromising position overwhelming to every one of her senses. It's a rough way she shoots up from the floor, pressing both palms into his chest to gain leverage, but she can't _think_ when she's so painfully close to someone else's body-

"Bloody hell, what would you do that for!" He protests.

"What do you mean!" May all but screams, weary and confused. "You were the one who pulled me!"

"I'm not talking about _that._ The bed! You almost sat on all that crap." And then, she sees it. Camouflaged due to being a similar shade of purple as the sheets, a pair of lacy thongs. And another pair. And yet another, dangling precariously from the edge, white and silver-striped, tacky and bedazzled. But what really sends her spine tingling with an acute sense of unease, is the chunky beads lying next to it, that have nothing to do with jewelry. The clues add up in her head, together with everything else they've seen in the house.

"I think," She whispers, feeling strangely close to vomiting. "I think he's using the house for prostitution. And I also think I want to leave. Like, right now."

"I've never agreed more with anything anyone has ever said."

Those were the last words she ever thought to hear him say in her presence, but this insight is overshadowed by her immense sense of relief that they are leaving the could be sex-dungeon behind.

* * *

Right before midnight, they are tucked under a shared duvet, a Christmas movie forgotten in the background.

"That is fucking _hysterical."_

Charlie's smile is something of a poetic experience. Full-teeth, lips slightly cracked, and her upturned nose wrinkled in delight, she's still gorgeous enough as if she'd been a model, posing, being viewed from her best angle. This woman is all good angles, May thinks to herself, tinted with more than a little loving jealousy.

Light spills over her features as if it was grateful for her very existence. Caramel eyes become tawny in the glow from her IKEA lamp, her hair – in a trendy up-do today, two high-sitting buns with tendrils framing her small, round face – becomes an auburn shade. Distractingly beautiful, just like the laughter that shakes May through the contact of leg against leg.

She looks down at her own shortcomings. Small, stubby legs, moth-eaten sweater and a pair of crocs that used to belong to her mom. She must remind herself not to be distracted, when she burns her tongue of a mouthful of Irish coffee that went down a bit too fast.

"I don't know if he's a narcissistic sex-fiend with no hygiene, or if it's a shelter for a group of prostitutes, and either way, I'm no closer than I was before to finding out what's wrong with this man. Despite the obvious."

"Fuck, man, your job is a hoot. I never knew you could snoop- wait, you _are_ allowed to go through people's houses, right?"

"Technically…we are not."

"Holy shit." Charlie throws her head back to rest on the couch cushions, barking a delightful laughter. She tilts her head, smiling sweetly at May's unamused face. "When is " _bring your bff to work"-_ day? I want to go invade people's privacy illegally in the name of being a badass doctor too."

"It really isn't as romantic as you're making it sound. I don't feel anything like a badass doctor. So far, I've only made people angry at me. I'm messing it up, Charlie." She mutters, the sentence disappearing into her cup quietly along with the light-hearted mood.

Charlie's head rests on her shoulder, a heavy, comforting weight. "You're amazing. You can do this. I believe in you. There you go!" She lifts her head, glancing at May. They way the light dances in her eyes remind her of a mischievous puppy. "Feel better, Miss Badass Doctor?"

"Oh my god, how do you do it." May shoots back, the monotone voice exaggerated for effect.

"Don't patronize me! I'll show you. This movie sucks." And with that, she chucks the remote at the innocent tv. Whether she meant to hit it or not, May doesn't know, but she does – and the rather cheap plastic covering the very corner of the outdated box chips clean off from the impact.

Both women stare open-mouthed at each other and seconds later, they laugh - too loudly for it being the middle of the night, prompting an angry pounding that reverberates through the walls into the apartment, and they must settle for holding each other's shaking bodies through the hysteria.

"I'm sorry about that, I really am. Who knew I had that much strength in these babies?" She laughs and kisses her right bicep, even though she's as thin as a fashion model and her muscles are far from prominent.

"Screw the tv. It was worth it."

"It _did_ make you laugh. So, there's that. You didn't need that bit of plastic anyway to watch your stupid sitcoms."

"I just can't believe…" May untangles herself from her giggling friend, still unable to keep her mind from the puzzle of today. "You know, he's not allergic to anything and he's been in and out of anaphylaxis, even in the clean room. It _boggles_ me. It's almost as if he's allergic to himself."

Charlie readjust, creeping further under the duvet in quiet contemplation. "Y'know, I'm not a doctor…" She swats May's arm in playful retaliation for the deadpan look she receives. "But the pregnancy test thing? I heard that sometimes when a man tests his urine with a pregnancy test, a positive indicates he's got some kind of cancer."

May makes an appreciative sound, though this isn't new information to her. "That is true. I'd be much less confused if he'd displayed symptoms of a cancer. It's just too far-fetched in this scenario."

"Is he going to die, then?"

It is a bit condescending of her to think it, but the question is endearing it its innocence and naiveté. And it's not Charlie's fault that it is a question she receives much too often. Too many factors are into play, yet this is the one inquiry everyone seems to make. _"Will they die?"_ Not, "When" and "if". Never is it "Is he going to die _unless you do this or that?"_ Always extremes, black or white, light or dark. Live or die. Being a doctor meant you got to be a part of the in-betweens, the shades in the spectrum of that color-reel people weren't concerned with or didn't know of.

"No. House won't let him. He'll Hercules-pull him from the River of Death in the underworld like a beast. And hell, I won't allow him to either."

Charlie pinches her arm underneath the duvet and May yelps. "That's my girl."

Rubbing her bicep, May sighs. "What happened to Badass Doctor?"

"For your information, those two aren't mutually exclusive." Charlie is halfway into the kitchen with both of their mugs, shouting over her shoulder before May can blink. "Top-up?"

May shouts back a 'yes' before she sinks into silent contemplation.

A few weeks ago, she read the article of a man who was saved, when he posted a picture of a positive pregnancy test online. An astute person informed the man he should probably see a physician, and quite rightly so - he tested positive for testicular cancer. As the article generated a fair bit of buzz, it wasn't completely out of the realms of possibility Mr. Silverburgh had decided to give this a go. From the state of him now, he must've been feeling unwell for some time before the anaphylaxis.

"Here. I used the good whiskey this time. You're too drunk to be mad about it." A steaming mug is placed before May's grateful face and she receives it with a thankful nod. Charlie slid back under the duvet's warmth like a snake under a rock.

"You're right." A heavy sigh escaped her lips. "Sorry, that sigh's not for you, really."

"Okay, you know what? No. No more." Charlie's head shakes, her buns becoming looser with the movement **.** "I've had enough of this moping face of yours. You need to think about something else. In a few hours, you can go right back to work."

May's head falls back, the sigh replaced by an even greater one.

"That one _was_ for me, wasn't it."

"I just…I haven't got a clue of what to talk about. I've been through it all. Angry doctors, naked patients, sex-dungeons, Dr. Wilson and the anxiety attack, Dr. Chase hating me…I guess that falls under the category of angry doctors…"

"Woah! Hold up!" The mug is swiftly placed with care on the side-table, so she can use her hands to fly up into sitting on her legs, her face only some inches from May's. "Go back!"

"…Naked…patients?" She tries questioningly.

"Go back _. One."_

"Wilson?"

"Bingo. Now go on."

"You need to move your face a bit first." But May is the first to move, her legs tired from today's strenuous activity and the prolonged sitting with Charlie now practically in her lap.

"Who _the fuck_ is Dr. Wilson? Why are you withholding information from me? Spill!"

"Officer, _please_. It had slipped my mind. Seriously though, I'd forgotten all about it in the mess of things. What do you want to know?"

Charlie seldom frowns. Her childlike innocence makes some people believe she is dumb as a doornail, but nothing is further from the truth. Charlie's intuition is her greatest weapon, and for that, May is eternally grateful to be her friend and not her enemy. In this moment, however, she almost scowls, endearingly comical.

"I don't know what it is that I don't know and what I want to know. _Fuck_." The look of utter despair mixed with the one of a longing for possibly juicy details proves to be too much for May and she laughs.

"I had an anxiety attack after the examination of Dr. Silverburgh. Major one – I'm ok now!" She cuts off the beginning of a protest. "Seriously. I mean it. It was just overwhelming to be in the thick of it and then having to come face to face with Dr. House for the first time ever. I was in Dr. Wilson's office and apparently, I keeled over after all that. I then woke up to being held in his arms."

A warm hand interlaces its fingers with hers.

"May. I want an honest answer: Is this doctor very attractive?"

"Oh my god. Well, I guess he's good-looking, but that is beside-"

Charlie jumps up from the couch, narrowly avoiding spilling her drink. Her arms shoot into the air in a celebratory gesture.

"She's done it!"

"If you don't sit your ass down, I'm never telling you anything ever again."

"No! Please. Just…okay, I'll be good."

"We just shared a moment, that was all it was. There was nothing flirtatious or romantic about it, whatsoever. I was on the verge of hyperventilating. Then we drank some coffee, and I, like always, overshared some information about myself and made a terrible exit. Like I do."

"Like you do." Charlie concurred, sliding back under the duvet for the millionth time that night. "So. He held you in his arms."

The faintest flush of red stains May's cheeks. Being nearly thirty and not fifteen, it has much more to do with the idea that whatever passed between them had any secret, amorous motive to it, rather than bashfulness. Or so she'd like to believe. "He caught my body so I wouldn't smash my head open, and then he steadied me while I was coming to, yes. Oh, and bought me coffee."

The speed at which Charlie's head snaps to look at her would be more comical, if not for the fact she's a bit tired of the insinuations.

"That's a date!"

"Wha- Oh, _come on_."

"Damsel in distress: saved. Then he buys you a drink and you guys sit around and hug it out. I've had plenty of dates with less action than that."

"You're absolutely delusional. _And_ you're teasing me." She adds, watching her friend's smile grow large and wide with guilt.

"I'll keep doing that until you stop rewarding my behavior."

"I don't do encouragement-positive parenting. I'm a _punisher._ "

The last bit of cold whiskey mixed with coffee and sugar is cold, but just as satisfying as a fresh mugful. It goes down smoother than the previous two that sits in her stomach, warming her from the inside.

"No more info. You'll have to earn it. I think I hear the dishes calling your name."

Lips pressed firmly together in a pout, Charlie nevertheless marches her way into the kitchen to face her punishment. A few minutes later, May lends a helpful hand, repaying her for the drinks. No more talk of work or ill-timed anxiety attacks pass between them, only the companionable silence following a night of good company.

Unfortunately, it's almost 2 AM before staggers into bed, and yet, she lies awake, wide-eyed stare meaninglessly into the charcoal blackness of the room. She can hear music, streaming through the cracked-open window from another apartment or the streets below. It's loud, fast and repetitive, not the sort of thing she'd listen to herself. Her own breathing – slow, controlled and deep – is lost underneath those layers of sound, along with her inner monologue. It doesn't take her long before sleep takes her away, but before that, Mr. Silverburgh's face emerges like a haunting still-image.

' _Help me.'_ He says.

' _Help me.'_

Before the vision of him can morph into the familiar one of her sister pleading, begging for her to save her, she is fast asleep.

* * *

When May sees him again the following day, the suggestiveness in her conversation with Charlie comes to the forefront of her mind.

She does not find him attractive. Of this she is certain. He is soothing, to some extent, to look at, such as a friend's familiar demeanor or the warmth of their hug. He is certainly not ugly, though she has never been able to find someone who she found fit under that category. The definition of 'ugly' was an uninteresting one to her – mundane and hurtful, unworthy of most people. But to see this much older man in any sort of romantic light bothers her. It's not disgust, she knows this too, but the thought of him holding her in an affectionate embrace still unsettles her.

Before she can get caught with her train of thought manifested as a deep crease between her eyebrows, she swiftly pivots and turns her back to him - possibly a bit too fast to look inconspicuous. Truthfully, she's afraid that she, in her fatigued state, won't be able to uphold a somewhat normal behavior around him. Every ounce of control over her behavoir went out the window with the past few days' overexertion. They are nearly complete strangers who have, for various reasons, been forced to share two borderline intimate moments and she's not going to tempt fate and end up in a third scenario where she is certain to slip up and make a fool of herself.

She is leaving the cafeteria in a brisk tempo, intent on escaping the situation before he spots her and she's forced to greet him.

" _Dishy,_ isn't he?"

May is unsure whether it's the words themselves or the tone of voice, or if it's the shock of nurse Jules speaking to her – so far, it's been all menacing glares, for whatever reason. Either way, her smoothie bottle is frightfully close to shattering on the floor, but, thank goodness, the bottle endures being clumsily dropped in surprise.

"Excuse me?" She dips down to catch her lunch.

Nurse Jules' laugh is light, like a wind chime or some type of annoying bird she's heard once somewhere before. It's noisy and although she hates disliking people for superficial reasons, she can feel her indignation growing with each little staccato-giggle. To her chagrin, Jules swipes the bottle before she can reach it. There's a maliciousness to the gesture that reminds her of a child bullying a classmate. But surely…

"Dr. Wilson. Is dishy. Or don't you agree? Maybe _your_ taste is better than the rest of us'." The word 'your' on her tongue sounds bitter. She reads the label with an intensive stare, as if the smoothie-bottle has personally offended her and all of her ancestors. And then, May realizes, the woman's ice-blue stare is racking over her body: Feet, solar plexus, head. Up and down, down and up again. A real elevator-glare, sizing her up - and down. It's a stare that shoots icicles into her flesh, her skin crawling with the panic of being pinned down by a calculating set of eyes.

"It figures that even the women who are overpaid go for the high-earners."

May twists around and find to both her relief and chagrin, no one is listening in or even looking their way. She's going to find a way to detangle herself from this confusing mess on her own.

"I've seen you look at him. I don't know what's between the two of you, but you need to know a few things. He's not-"

"Stop."

Nurse Jules' otherwise quite pretty face is twisted by disgust at being interrupted.

"I don't know why you've seen fit to even begin this conversation, but I find it highly inappropriate. I despise gossip. And you're wrong, you know. About Dr. Wilson. Whatever ideas you have in your little head about us, feel free to just…stop."

" _Little head?"_ There is a real, mean sneer on her face that borders on something canine, but suddenly her countenance softens. May finds the answer in a gentle voice behind her.

"Jules. Dr. Renard." They all share a small nod of acknowledgement. The possibility that he is there because he happened to catch the beginning of an altercation flashes through her mind. She watches him rather sweetly place his hand on Jules' shoulder.

"Will you go check on Mrs. Akerby for me? She said she missed that "darling, pretty blonde" doing her hair for her. I promised her I would deliver." He says, his smile broad and closed-mouthed, eyes warm and creasing at the corners.

If May didn't know better, she would've never guessed Jules had just looked like a viper ready to strike – the way she switches from aggressive feral feline to purring house-cat makes her head spin with worry – someone who can switch on and off their emotions like flicking a light-switch is a real danger, she knows from horrifying experience.

"Thank you, Dr. Wilson. I'll go see her immediately." Jules starts leaving, but she stops in her tracks and flings the hostage bottle at May, who barely, but thankfully catches it. "Here you go. Your lunch." And with that, she's gone.

"I'm not going to ask." He says almost immediately. With a flinch, she realizes it's hard to hear just how exasperated his voice sounds, and the briefest pang of guilt hits her before she remembers she bears none of the fault for whatever ails him, least of all _this_. "Just make me a promise that you won't go picking fights with my nurses." He looks down at her. "You do know you were shouting, don't you?"

She goes red instantly. "I apologize. I-It wasn't unwarranted, though". Finally, she finds her guts and is able to take a proper look into his eyes. They are, despite his admonishment, kind and unmoved.

"Walk with me? The rooftop is a safe space, even if it is a little cold." He asks, and she consents to some fresh air. His hand finds the small of her back and he guides her through corridors growing increasingly familiar to her. He suddenly retracts, as if burned. "I forgot how you felt about that."

To both their surprises, she says: "I didn't even notice."

* * *

"She provoked me."

"You got provoked."

"Semantics."

"No – perspective. She put the ball in your court and you slam-dunked it into your own hoop."

May halts, fighting a scowl.

"A creative metaphor doesn't change the fact that she was trying to rile me up for no reason at all."

Her mind does an about 120-second delayed re-take then – didn't he say she was _shouting?_

"I'm sorry…but did you hear our conversation? She was being _very_ presumptive." Could he please, at least acquiesce that she practically got _jumped,_ and had to defend herself?

It fills her shivering body with dread when he doesn't respond to her in any way for a full eight seconds – she counts them – his body is pressed against the railing, facing away from her, his gray-streaked hair being ruffled carelessly by the strong gusts of wind _._

 _And you're wrong, you know. About Dr. Wilson. Whatever ideas you have in your little head about us, feel free to just…stop._

Reliving it certainly doesn't do her any favors, she reckons, hugging herself to shield her body from the cold.

"She wants to go out with me. Last night she called me for the third time, asking me on a dinner-date. And then some." His chuckle intensifies when he turns around and sees May's wide eyes, pupils comically huge. Scrutinizing his face, she sees nothing to decipher, no more to the statement than what he's letting on.

"Not that it is _any of my business_ , but have you accepted that offer?" What a shitty and weird thing to say, she thinks, her mental self standing akimbo and giving her physical self a disapproving look. Nevertheless, he satiates her curiosity without annoyance tinging his voice, and she eagerly listens, for an exact reason she can't pinpoint. She really _does_ hate gossip. Usually.

"I'm not ready for a romantic commitment. In fact, I might never be." Despite his words, he grins, which she finds so very intriguing.

"Why?"

He chuckles, and it sends a frisson of pleasure up her spine. There's no immediate answer, so she leaves the silence between them unperturbed for some long moments.

"If your heart's not completely into something, don't do it. I try to live by that. It's…something that was a lot easier to _die_ by, but I'm trying my hardest now that I'm no longer terminal. Cancer changes everything. I used to think it changed how you viewed the world, but it's a lot more convoluted. It changed _me_."

Her eyes have nearly slipped closed in concentration on her thoughts through the windy silence. It seems too absurd to be up here – the winds lashing angry tongues of bone-deep cold through the flesh – listening to Dr. Wilson share his inner thoughts. Her smoothie sits, untouched on the concrete next to her feet, and she eyes it, hoping he doesn't look at her thinking that her mind is drifting. This is simply how she grounds herself, how she stays on track through conversations.

Odd. That's what this was. So odd. That she was now starting to have these regular moments of conversations bordering on deep topics and maudlin introspection, with a man, who was probably many years her senior. A man she does not know at all, whom she comes into contact with very seldom during her working hours, and yet she finds herself listening, talking and straining to understand why she doesn't mind any of this.

"Haruki Murakami." She says quietly. He turns to study her face, but she doesn't meet his confused eyes.

"What?"

"What you're describing – it sounds like a quote from one of his books. About being in a storm and once you re-emerge, you are not the same. It reminded me of that. Sorry," She adds, smiling weakly. "I'd give you the exact quote if I remembered it."

"Do you read a lot in your spare time?" He asks, changing the subject to both her disappointment and relief.

"No." She replies, shaking her head. "I used to, when I was a kid. Then I went through med-school and it became a chore, not a hobby. Fiction tires me out, but I do a good book. My real love affair is with music."

He nods knowingly when she describes her time in med-school, but he tilts his head questioningly when she mentions music. "Really. What sort of music?"

"Honestly, everything. I have a soft spot for classical music. Not piano pieces – specifically really old stuff, like baroque. The singing is just out of this world. I used to hate classical music when I was young, but I guess I'm just changeable."

"You don't seem the type." They exchange a glance and she tries – and fails – to stop her stomach from lurching.

"You know, I-"

"Lunch is over!" A booming voice interrupts Dr. Wilson and sends May's heart hammering. Dr. House's cane strikes the concrete as he limps towards them with a blasé look on his face. "Would the two of you be so kind as to join us inside the hospital you both work in? People are _dying_ down here. _"_

His sardonic drawl fills her with guilt. She's up here talking about her hobbies during her working hours, when Mr. Silverburgh is still in limbo in the clean room. Just last night, her thoughts were all over the case. But Dr. Wilson deflects the criticism.

"You're three minutes early. Did you _plan_ to ambush me before lunch was actually over?" His tone isn't accusatory, yet his body language screams exhaustion, as if he's being asked the same thing for the thirtieth time by a toddler.

"Who, _me?_ Absolutely." House replies, with his finger pointing at his own chest. He then points at her. "Actually, I was stalking my employee. You're boring. Following you around only reminds me of how lonely you are. Miss Phallic-Panic over there, however-" _Oh dear_ God, she thinks, fighting a blush in vain. "-Is beguiling. Did you know she's actually _a doctor?_ I'm telling you, it's like following a lost child in the park. _"_

"I can be deceptive like that. It's actually hard work, trying to look this incompetent, but I manage." Bravado fills her, from where it comes from, she's unaware, but it seems the right thing to say in the moment. Dr. House seems to respond the best to retorts such as these.

Dr. Gregory House spins on the spot and transfixes her with the most intensive glare that instantaneously fills her with regret. Oh, it was definitely the worst thing she could've said – his deep-blue eyes are dark with what she can only guess is pure contempt.

"You're fired." He says in a humorless, monotone voice.

She must look like she has been slapped across the face back-handed. She certainly feels like it.

"What?" She squeaks. There's no way he's being serious.

"Your irreverent back-talk isn't welcome at this hospital. Your competence is. Since you've not shown me any of that, your time here is done. Go. I'll tell the others, if you don't want to make your goodbyes. Seeing as you're still new enough. Foreman can't seem to remember your last name."

Even a few feet away, she still feels like he's standing over her, the sheer force of his presence is terrifying, and she thinks she could leap of the roof right then and there and still be held captive by the deer-in-the-spotlight feeling. Why is he doing this to her? Why here? Why now? Because of what: a snappy reply to his own cynicism? She would have to rebuild her entire career…would he even give her a recommendation? What about going apartment hunting? She would have to cancel that meeting with the real estate agent and maybe even resort to moving back home now that her income would go back to a bare minimum. She shudders. Impossible. It couldn't happen. It can't.

"House." She vaguely registers Dr. Wilsons careful voice through the dense fog of panic. "You can't fire someone because you're having a bad day."

"It has nothing to do with what transpired earlier." House cuts him off. May listens, but has got no idea what they're talking about. "I've told her why she's fired, and I meant every word. Back-talk doesn't cure patients."

"No." She says, heart doing triple somersaults near somewhere that feels like her throat.

Both men divert their attention back to her face, and though she doesn't meet either of their stares, she can feel their emotions. Wilson: guarded. House: austere.

"You don't get to fire me. You didn't even make the decision to hire me. There's a man down there," May bites her lower lip, surprised herself that she is fighting tears. "Who will die if I don't help him. I fought for years to earn the right to help people like him. You don't get to take that away from me. Even if I'm a disappointment at times, I'm going to do my job in the end." Defiantly looking into his blue eyes, she shivers. It's clear that neither of them expected that response – she knows that she herself did not.

"Remember those words for when he's dead, which might be sooner than you think. If your definition of ' _in the end'_ are literal, then congratulations."

"What?"

"He's in a coma, deep one. Complete vegetable. Doesn't even blink when I ask him if he wants the hot blonde nurse or the redhead to give him his sponge-bath. You'd think _that_ would prompt a response of some sort."

 _You're vile,_ she thinks, ignoring that small voice which usually tells her _'he uses humor to cope. Don't mind it. This is how he deals with life.'_

Struggling to breathe, she flings herself down staircases, narrowly making it down each step without injury. There is no time to think, to ground oneself, to register.

Even Dr. Wilson's warm eyes as he mutters something unintelligible to her through the crowded mass of thoughts in her head, are lost to the harrowing vision of Mr. Silverburgh dying in a mass of spasming limbs, herself standing by uselessly.

She banishes the thought.

* * *

 _"And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about."_

\- Haruki Murakami  
 _Kafka on the Shore_


	5. Chapter 5

What she expects upon wrenching open the door to the ICU, is a million things – funny how seeing Mr. Silverburgh lying peacefully on his back in an otherwise silent and empty room is not one of them. Panting, she disinfects and is baffled he is lying in here: out of the safe room. Granted; The sterile environment didn't have any effect and the coma seemed inevitable, but the fearfulness and apprehension still fills her.

It is quiet in here, naturally, and devoid of staff. What person in their right mind at this hospital would touch a volatile bomb when they did not understand every bit of its composition? Everyone, except Dr. House's team, would stay as far away as possible for everyone's safety. Chief of all being their own. She sighs, exasperated, taking each step towards him timidly, as if he would awaken simply by her closeness.

She recalls etched lines of age and exertion in his middle-aged face. The majority of those seem to have smoothed over with the onset of sleep. He looks _so_ clammy – he's been through so much within a day's time. She ventures a hand that is calmer than what it should be out to lie on top of his. He is, indeed, completely soaked in his own sweat. Pity pushes down the diminutive beginnings of disgust. He is still fighting, and she bristles with an odd sensation sparking a trail of fire from the base of her skull down toward where she stands firmly rooted. She knows it is pride, but the unfamiliarity makes her uncomfortable rather than rally.

Regardless, she is not simply going to give up on this fight with him. There is a challenge here that simply seems to defy logic, until the solution brings to light how sensible the answer was all along. _That_ , is a feeling she is deeply familiar with.

There is an empty chair facing the large, closed window from which crepuscular rays slip through. It looks recently sat in: A black velveteen blanket has been carelessly thrown off in haste, crumpled up in a pile next to the wall. A half-eaten cup of vanilla flavored pudding lies forgotten on a moss-green serving tray. And in the corner, pushed far under a side-table with basic medical tools, bandages and disinfectants – is a rose-red leather bag that looks so displaced in the mostly unblemished room, May is surprised it's been left alone for even a second. Whoever was here must have recently left in quite a rush. It is then Mr. Silverburgh's hand seems to twitch, so slight a movement it could've been make believe.

She yelps and nearly drops Mr. Silverburgh's hand. Bright, red spots have appeared out of nowhere, a rash that certainly wasn't there before. The multi-parameter monitor doesn't show any distressing signs upon a brief glance, but when her eyes flicker back to him, the entire expanse of his throat is bright scarlet with irritation.

"Here's the deal." Dr. House stands close to her, and his voice forces her to snap back to attention. She had zeroed in on the patient and this caned man truly moves with the stealth of a leopard – when he feels like it. She takes a mental note of this, not without sensing a sizable rush of irritation.

"You'll leave after this one. No fuss, or I'll have you escorted out." His commands are delivered in a flat and concise whisper despite the caveat, and it forces a quick, sharp nod out of her. A painless lie.

May turns her head to the side and spots then what he means by ' _this one'._ A tiny woman with features and coloring nearly identical to Mr. Silverburgh's stands off to the side, shifting her weight uneasily from foot to foot. Likely his sister, early thirties, neatly manicured hands and short, thick, dark hair. She mutters a greeting when she notices May's attention on her, but her flat demeanor signals that she's mentally absent. May grinds her teeth together; her irritation at House becomes a stab of anger at the show of indifference. Someone's family member being thrown back and forth over the fence between the land of the living and of the dead, usually elicited a much stronger response. It felt deeply wrong and the anger found purchase in this. There was history here – and she would have to get invested further in it to get to the bottom of it all.

" _Look_ at him, Dr. House! _That_ wasn't there when I got here. Yet another thing you can go ahead and add to the list. Every single day in this hospital for him is another financial hit my family might not be able to deal with." The woman points directly at the patient's red throat. May simply _must_ clench a hidden fist in her lab coat's pocket. The strain on her joints brings immediate relief and makes it easier to suppress the sharp coil of anger.

 _We're doing everything that we can_ – it gets caught on something in her throat and physically affects her much like a piece of dust, scratching the fleshy bits of her pharynx to the brink of coughing. Cliche words, flimsy deflections and entirely feckless things. Avoid at all cost. May's thoughts cluster with the effort of trying to find the right words.

"I'm Avia. Avia Berman, his sister." May gives her outstretched hand a quick shake. A hard grip, short. Someone with no time to waste on platitudes and likely a great many other things.

"Dr. May Renard. I was the doctor seeing to your brother during…when he…" The memory of that incident hasn't dulled.

"The one who stormed off? I already know about you. Oh, relax." She giggles sweetly. "You look like I'm about to serve you with a lawsuit! God, wouldn't that be the thing to do. But it's not going to get _him_ on his feet, is it?"

From the other side of the bed, May watches her place a manicured hand on top of his, giving his a gentle squeeze. A few seconds pass like this, neither doctors feeling privileged to end the odd silence.

"This guy," Avia breathes, her words like two sighs. "This fucking guy. It never ends with you, huh? I've bailed you out of a Mexican jail. Do you have any idea how hard that is? I had to sell the Mercedes and butter up the _federales_ real good. I walked straight into that place, and they saw me wearing the sapphire brooch – the one from Tiffany's. Had to give that up too when the jailer's hands started hesitating, right as he was about to drag you out of there. The bastard. You know dad, he was as helpful as you'd think. _"Tell that schmoo I said hello!"._ That's what he told me, right before he kicked the door in my face." The anger in her voice becomes exhausted, leaving her stroking a slow finger along a path of his carpal bones.

"You're lucky I love you as much as I do. What would you do, huh? Without me? What would you do…"

It's a smokescreen. She feels dumbfounded and utterly foolish for not catching on sooner. This woman loves her brother deeply. Anger uncoils. Her chest heaves with the raw chill from the flood of relief. It is her immediate impulse to place her own, shaking hand on top of Avia's, but she realizes that the gesture is inappropriately timed and refrains.

"He's not leaving this hospital until we cure him, I promise you that."

Avia doesn't tear her eyes from her brother's face.

"You see, there's a problem with that promise." The deep voice from the corner cuts in. "My apologies," He says in a voice surprisingly contrite for his usual irreverent demeanor. "But while little _Hana_ over here might have a big old bleeding heart for these semantics, she's been laid off. Our team-"

"You were fired?" Perplexed eyes roam over May's face. "Then...why are you here? I don't understand. Is this more of your usual bullshit?" Avia's voice turns brusque when she switches to address House, and her delicate hand retreats from her brother's unresponsive one. "First I'm being fobbed off by your staff making me believe my brother is in a somewhat acceptable state, and instead I'm stuck here with a _vegetable_. Now you're firing members off your own team, right in the middle of diagnostics?"

May thinks he looks almost mournful. Strained. There's a tightness in his jaw, a muscle responding to the pressure of molars against molars. It dawns on her this must be what he looks like when wrangling with his tongue, likely because he was well aware of what it can could do.

"Just let me do my job. A job that I'm pretty fucking good at. You want results, you leave it to me. And by _leave_ , that includes you actually leaving. Physically. Like, right now would be a pretty good time to do so."

May allows her eyes to widen at the cursing, not completely surprised. There are things you just can't fully suppress and she supposes for Dr. House, his impatience for any sort of unforeseen obstacle is one of them.

"Can I trust you?"

Dr. House doesn't respond immediately, his expression flat.

"I'm not going to start doing the usual platitudes that are associated with being a doctor. Trust me or don't, the results are going to be the same."

With a quiet groan, Avia's head falls forward in mock defeat.

"Your bedside manner is like being kicked in the shins. Tell me, honestly: Is my brother going to make it out of here alive?"

They all look to the patient. Dead to the world, May wonders briefly what he would say if he was a part of this conversation that was revolving around him. Her mind wanders into the abaton of medical ethics and the right to end your suffering – her hands tighten around the frame of the bed, angry that her head chooses the most inopportune moments to travel into darker parts.

"Your brother has a very real chance of dying." His voice is mechanical. The naked truth is cold, but he makes it even more painful. Even May can tell; it is too raw. Undoctor-like, she thinks. "In fact, I'm wondering why he hasn't already at this point."

"That's about what I expected to hear from you. You'll always be the same, Gregory, even when you can tell exactly what people need to hear, you steer yourself away from the comfortable and deliver the same old shpiel." She laughs, a sound too gentle and soft for the abrasive tone of her voice to fit her.

"You. Dr. Renard." Avia says. Her articulation picks apart the letters, the staccato making said Dr. feel almost invalidated. "Say that thing again you were saying earlier, but a bit more convincingly this time."

There's been a very limited number of words coming out of her mouth since, well, since entering the building to be honest. She's certain what she's referring too, and she happily obliges.

"He will not die." She's promised herself success. It is in no way difficult to promise the same to those who were the most in need of the assuagement. "After all, there are no problems: only solutions." She adds with a smile she hopes instills faith.

The other woman narrows her gaze and May's skin prickles with the intensity of it. It's hard in equal measure to ignore the physical itch and the mental strain of being gauged.

"Good. Very good." Avia makes a gesture between May and Dr. House, clearly meant for him to take note. "A bit too cheesy with the ' _no problems_ ' thing there at the end, but you pass. Your heart is in the right place. But you know, you'd have to have a heart to being with for it to be in the right place." She smiles sweetly at him. "I want her on your team. Well, at least for my brother's case. I know the extent of my powers. If you want to let her go, I can't force you to hold onto her. But you know. You ought to." She gives him an indifferent look. "She's got plenty of what you're lacking."

The brave woman gathers her belongings, and over her shoulder she says, matter-of-factly: "When he wakes up, tell him he owes me. Since I won't be there to remind him. He needs frequent reminders. Men tend to." Avia exits the room and May is left with a crushing sense of impending doom and no means of escape. She struggles against the need to gasp, her throat suddenly dry.

But House offers her nothing. After what seems like more than a full minute, he tears himself away from a semi-frozen state. Briefly, he looks to his left and their eyes meet. She swears she feels the physical impact of his glare, dull, metal-like and heavy, although it is most certainly less terrifying than ever.

"Don't settle in." He says flatly, and mysteriously only with a hint of the usual acerbic bite to his words. He is gone before she can formulate a response.

Beneath her grip, the palms are soaked with sweat. She lets go, at the same time releasing a shuddering breath.

From dream-job, to fired, to re-hired – albeit highly reluctantly. She was not intimidated by being antagonized by the people around her, she was used to a certain measure of ill will. In her youth, her differences from other children was the cause of that. During the university years, it was the envy of others. Now she was unsure, but more equipped to deal with it. Or so she thought sometimes. This was such a moment.

May lifts her head. Outside the window, the sun casts a glow of rich, golden twilight over everything.

One day she was going to experience that one case which defeated her. And though that in itself might not be the end of her career, the utter dread she felt in anticipation was a dense fog which threatened to impair her actions. How on earth could she promise something with such conviction, such overwhelming and _stupid_ cockiness, without even thinking? If House didn't think she was a complete moron before, she had definitely sealed her own fate in ink and mailed it to House on the spot today.

It didn't matter in the end. House was going to terminate her employment the second Mr. Silverburgh strolled out of the building – as she had so solemnly sworn he would – and she would be back where she started. Broke, anxiety-ridden, and –

Her breath hitches, caught on a hiccough. That part of her past is still sore, raw beyond belief, too painful to be grazed even by a stray thought. She will fight this time. To be accepted. To be considered. To simply be allowed to _be._ There is no return to that which she remembers still with excruciating lucidity. After all, the scars are still there, should she forget.

Her gaze slips from the warm glow outside to the underside of her wrist.

So are the bruises, dark and irrefutable.

With the vast majority of pages bookmarked, May's colossal medical dictionary takes up every bit of space of the side-table. Leaning into its pages, she flips them with concentration beading her brows. A Styrofoam cup of coffee stands cold and forgotten, tucked under the small table to avoid collision with random coffee-shop goers' brisk feet.

After reassuring herself there was nothing further she could accomplish after hospital hours, she'd decided upon a head-clearing walk in a nearby park. That had only made her thoughts more sporadic and given her less control over them. Half-way around the block and a mere stone's throw away from home, it had occurred to her that she didn't want to go home and stay there to brood – she was starving anyway and her apartment was still a disorderly place unfit for anything and anyone – a sandwich and a cup of black coffee seemed the only fit choice.

Rather than time passing with her mind in disarray, her system is in place now. Her mind, unperturbed, grounds itself in the familiarity of every sensation surrounding her. The world outside remains blurred and unimportant. Voices, smells and lights coagulate and are flushed from her mind like they are nothing. In fact, it works so well that she never notices when company pops up and sits down with care opposite her, mindful of not bursting her productive bubble. Her whole body jumps when a hand slides something across the page containing words starting with Ce-Ch towards her. It is her phone. She squints and takes in the person rudely sitting within her space. Dr. Chase looks at her with tired eyes, his eyebrows indicating he did not exactly expect that exaggerated of a response.

"You left this behind. Thought you might find it useful at some point."

She thanks him in a hurry as she pockets the device, as she feels more than a little dazed by his intrusion and her own oversight.

"You're working." He gleans after his eyes does a little dance from the opposite side of the pages.

" _Of course_ I am working." She has no time to bite back the clipped notes, to soften the edges of her exasperated voice. She definitely doesn't want come across as rude and put more strain on their already wobbly collaboration with her colleagues. Him especially.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess I should be going home too. Sort myself out and do a bit of thinking." He responds after a short pause. If he's offended, he's choosing to ignore it. "...But in a coffee-shop after dark? There are better places than this to go over things, don't you think? I mean, you have the steamer and the shouting, the small-talk and rustling going on..."

"Under other circumstances, I would agree with you." She speaks softly, without looking up from her book. Her eyes have hooked themselves onto a lengthy description of delayed symptoms of irritant contact dermatitis that she would not much like to abandon mid-sentence. "For things that require this sort of focus, I need this kind of space to work in. It's...well, I guess it's hard to explain." She says as kindly as she can, biting her lip.

The outskirts of her vision shows him shrugging." Sounds like you explained it just perfectly to me. So..." He trails off a bit, a part of his voice sounding uncertain. It prompts her curiosity, and her eyes flicker up. A backpack – his, undoubtedly – slumps against their table, and in the very same moment she dreads to think he might plan to stay with her, he sheds his jacket, his eyes considering the chalkboard menu over the counters in the far back of the shop. A thin tremble of panic slithers its way up her spine: of all things, she did not expect Dr. Chase to willingly have coffee with her this close to midnight.

But he's here. And when he reclaims the place opposite her, fiddling with the lid on his newly ordered flat white, he's not being quiet.

"I was wondering where you were from, earlier today. Your accent is just like anyone else around these parts, but there's something about your vocabulary. It's almost British. Posh-like."

"Ah, yes, well," She flips the page with a gentle turn of her hand, merely pretending to read at this point. "I studied there. Lived there for the majority of my life, in fact." She smiles half-heartedly. "I never picked up an accent, but I suppose some of the words stuck with me. I occasionally refer to a cigarette as a fag and then hate myself for the rest of the week. Habits die hard. Especially language-related habits."

"Especially childhood-related habits. I guess it's more than a habit, though." He adds, looking at her with something quite different in his eyes.

"I thought you were the arrogant type. No, actually. I just thought you were arrogant, to be honest with you."

She swallows a bit too thickly after a few moments pondering whether or not she heard him right. Her intuition tells her neither to look at him nor talk, but she ends up doing both.

"It is rather noticeable that you seem to hate me. But if _I'm_ being honest, I'm used to that. Look, I'm happy you came by to give me my-"

"No. Shit, okay. Listen. My delivery was a bit rough there, but what I mean is..." He sighs deeply, folds his hands pensively and looks at her so earnestly, it kills the very last sliver of her concentration.

And she does listen then. A tiny huffing noise escapes her, completely drowned by the sound of her bible of medical ailments being slammed shut. Her dramatics earns her several annoyed, bloodshot looks by tired, late-night coffee shop goers.

"Look, I don't hate you, no one on the team hates you. But on your first day, you didn't even introduce yourself, you didn't ask about any of us. About our names, backgrounds...Not even small talk. It was odd. Seemed like you were actively trying to avoid us. Don't think I've ever seen anyone who's working for House more willing to do clinic duty than you."

It's true. She was doing evasive maneauvers, hoping desperately to postpone the inevitable and remain unnoticed and unremarkable. It was a mistake, she comprehends that much, but she knew so even when she started doing it. How could she explain this bizzare clump of teenage angst in her stomach, threatening every logical part of her?

"And then I hear you've been running around, fainting on the job."

The complexion of her face whitens several shades. A word with Dr. Wilson about confidentiality seems to be next on her to-do list.

"So you're running around, juking us all like it's the national dodgeball cup, not taking care of yourself in a place where you're supposed to be an example in health. Trying to get a hold of you is impossible, because you don't seem to know what a pager is, and calling you, well-"

They both look at her inner pocket where her phone is tucked away. Her, with a fair bit of regret painted on her face.

"And you work alone. Here. Unaware of the cohesiveness of the group. So I guess, what I'm saying is...trust us. I don't know you. I don't know why you're avoiding everyone. But you just need to trust us."

"I got fired today."

"Yeah, I heard." He says with a tiny sigh, reclining into his seat. "Secured yourself a shaky rehire on the spot though. Not bad, if you ask me."

"For speaking my mind." She adds, not quite meeting his eyes. Rather, she cups her face in contemplation and stares straight ahead somewhere near the breadth of his shoulders. A large measure of emotions – shame, guilt and plain sheepishness – has collected themselves in her skull to burn. Confronted with every single mistake she's committed since her first day, _all at once,_ has left her floundering for the right words – even more so than usual. Her posture has slumped into something lazy and unattractive and her fortitude stored up to deal with today's challenges, melts away until nearly nothing remains. "If trust was the issue, why would he fire me on the spot for speaking up?"

"Do you really think that's why?"

Auricles perked with interest, she corrects her posture, allowing her eyes to slip and look with eagerness into his. Of all things she expected to hear, this wasn't one of them.

"If you happen to hold the keys to the kingdom, feel free to share them with me. It seems to me that no matter what I say or do, he's ready to strike. Yes, I've not been the most efficient person. I've got some things to prove, yet." To her dislike, a tiny measure of self-pity settles in her stomach. "His name is regaled with a sort of awe you can't seem to touch. When I first heard of his genius, his work ethics, I wouldn't have dreamed of working with him. I felt utterly unworthy. As if there's being a doctor, and then there's...being _House._ A god."

"Look-"

"But here I am." She makes a vague and resigned gesture at the space around them, palm upturned and then softly closed. "Feeling utterly unworthy anyway."

"Dr. Renard-"

"May." She corrects him instinctively. Despite her predilection for correctness, being on a last-name basis with people has always irked her.

"May. House doesn't fire people for mouthing off. He is...many things. I mean, the guy doesn't always walk on the right side. And he's far from justified in his behaviour, most of the time. But if you think his ego somehow got in the way of his job, you're dead wrong."

She considers this for a few seconds, wishing she still had a hot cup to fold her trembling hands around. Instead she absently rubs a hand against the flush of her cheek.

"I know we're on the same side," she finally says, hands sliding down to rest in her lap where the shaking of her hands is obfuscated. Her breathing dims until it is the shortest of laughs, a brief exhale. " _A friend is one who has the same enemies as you do,_ right?"

"You don't have to be his friend." Something glints in his eye. He can't quite control it in time; the corners of his mouth lazily form a grin at some thought unknown to her. "You just need to be a damn good specialist. Solve problems. Use your head. He may not have hired you himself, but trust me: If he really didn't see you fit to be on the team, he wouldn't have bothered dragging you into our discussions at all." His expression turns almost rebellious then. "It was a good laugh, watching him hopping around with anger and looking for you. Not many people get to the old genius anymore, but you've really struck a nerve with your hide-and-seek game."

She considers this for a few seconds, until she is briefly interrupted by someone making her aware that the shop is closing for the night. It puts a halt to the topic and their conversation alltogether – making sure her table is spotless, she takes inventory of her belongings, making sure everything she brought is with her. As she is doing so, she finds that she rather enjoys the thought of House searching frantically for her. Perhaps it's a narcissistic confirmation of her worth as a doctor – he may need her more than he would ever care to admit.

It is, however, not overlooked by her how his body language shifts into something that closely resembles how he was before. Stiff, guarded, watchful. She's done something, maybe ended the conversation prematurely or impolitely by not answering. Did he search for positivity in her? A reply of reassurance? A rather large part of her feels instinctively unconvinced he wants her to ever set foot in the hospital again.

A realization slips from her lips, and despite it being said in a muttered, dull timbre, she sees from his sharp turn towards her that he's heard it.

"You came here because you didn't trust me."

It is not a question. Her tone is set. Everything from the sharp, defined line of her mouth to the way her hand firmly clutches the oversized bag over her shoulder speaks a sincerety no one could misinterpret.

"Maybe." He finally says when he recovers. "I guess I sort of had to see it for myself."

"See what?"

"That you were on the team." He says, mirroring her guarded body language as they both leave the shop, perhaps unknowingly. "Well, that and...the phone, obviously. I didn't steal it to have coffee with you."

Ah. He doesn't refer to being on the team literally, of course. She corrects herself with an exasperation as old as she herself is. He means mentally. In spirit.

"You could've asked me yourself, you know." A sleepiness suddenly grips her bones and compresses everything in her so tightly, to breathe borders on something painful.

Looking at him from the corner of her eye as they both walk briskly through the chilly city breeze, she stumbles over something invisible on the sidewalk. "It's too late for me. I need to keep reading at home where there's a quiet space." There's an automatic wince that follows her inadvertent rudeness, but with Chase, it's getting smaller for each infraction.

"You can't be serious," he laughs. "you can't even manage walking. Don't you think it's time to give it a rest?"

She briefly considers bumping into him and shattering his equilibrium and it's _almost_ worth it to wipe some of that smugness from his face. Then again, she decides: she enjoys his playful side much more than what he was projecting before. Instead, she pulls in a cold breath and nestles her mouth further into her scarf.

"I'm on the team, Chase. You can translate that into a: no."

"Noted."

The overwhelmingly familiar feeling of home envelops her with warmth before she takes the last few steps before the stairwell, even well before they reach her block. She would've refused to be escorted like this if asked outright, but Chase has cleverly circumvented this by walking beside her, setting an even and brisk pace, all while distracting her already burned out brain with small-talk. It doesn't matter, she thinks. Her sleepiness is a weighted blanket, pushing every nerve, emotion, thought and breath back into her body, making her heavy and weak.

Watching him walk off into the dense and smuir-like fog, she suddenly remembers asking why the patient wasn't kept in the safe-room. But despite the pitch of her voice, carried strongly through the crisp air, he's already too far away to hear her.

It's odd. Despite feeling like a good rest was a lifetime ago, something about her apartment feels dark and different. Her door makes a dull click upon closing it and her keys clash with the eerie silence when she fumble and they slip through the juggling of her fingers. Muttering a swear while fumbling in the blue, minimally lit hallway, she can't rid herself of the sensation of imminent anxiety.

She gives in to the impulse, like she always does. An electrifying sensation shoot from her fingertips, into the scar and the surrounding skin. The location of it is mapped into her memory with a precision born from every touch she's given it during the last eight years since it was imprinted into the base of her skull forever. There's no stopping the shaky exhale when her longest finger traces the inch-long line, and the memory of how it came to be replays itself.

Her ribs had still been sore after the last time he'd struck her. It was usually with his fist, so when his still shoe-clad foot had jammed itself into her diaphragm with an incomprehensible rage, she'd been stunned by method, not by the act itself. She had gotten used to the abuse a lot faster than she'd ever imagined, and that sort of sadness by realization took away more of her spirit than the actual beatings ever could. Fear didn't exist in her world back then, before the scar.

Imagine how much one could possibly miss such an emotion after a while. Feeling scared - feeling anything was out of reach. Until that scar.

He'd done it to her silently, her back turned towards him, her doing a menial task like wiping off a wet plate. Some details of the attack had been lost forever. Some were vivid. There had been a surreal, hard coldness upon impact, followed by a sickening crunch of skull giving way to metal.

She had never learned why he deemed her unworthy to live. Why a knife in the skull on a Monday evening seemeed a fitting end for a year-long relationship. A fitting end for the woman he claimed to have once loved. Those hands of his that had gripped the knife were once on her face as he leaned in to take her lips with his. So much loss. It was inconceivable.

Her hand fell from the back of her neck.

At least she was too tired to weep.


End file.
